••'<•*. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  HEARTS 


BY 


WILKIE   COLLINS 
AUTHOR]  OP    "THE  MOONSTONE,"    "THE  NEW  MAGDALEN,"    ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
JOHN  W.  LOVELL  COMPANY 

14  AND  16  VESEY  STREET 


lllllllllllllltfllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllMIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII    II    I!    I!    II 

PRIVATE  LIBRARY 

OF 

F5.   A.    NKKDHAIVl. 


If  thou  art  borrowed  by  a  friend, 

Right  welcome  shall  he  be 
To  read,  to  study;  not  to  lend, 

But  to  return  to  me. 

Not  that  imparting  knowledge  doth 

Diminish  learning's  store; 
But  books.  I  often  find,  when  lent, 

Return  to  me  no  more, 

Then  like  a  true  and  honest  friend, 

If  you  would  gain  renown, 
For  credit's  sake,  the  leaves  keep  clean, 

Nor  turn  the  corners  down. 

Tkiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinl 


THE  QUEEN  OF  HEARTS. 


BY  WILKIE 


LETTER  OF  DEDICATION  TO  EMILE  FORGUES. 

AT  a  time  when  French  readers  were  altogether  unaware  of 
the  existence  of  any  books  of  my  writing,  n  critical  examination 
of  my  novels  appeared  under  your  signature  in  the  Reeue  des 
Mondes.  I  read  that  article  af  the  time  of  its  appearance, 
with  sincere  pleasure  and  sincere  gratitude  to  O).e  vwrifce~,  "dnd  I 
have  honestly  done  my  best  to  profit  by  it'evt-r  since. 

At  a  later  period,  when  arrangements  were  made  for  the  pub- 
lication of  my  novels  in  Paris,  you  kindly  undertook,  at  some 
sacrifice  of  your  own  convenience,  to  give  the  first  of  the  series 
—"The  Dead  Secret" — the  great  advantage  of  being  rendered 
into  French  by  your  pen.  Your  excellent  translation  of  "The 
Lighthouse  "  had  already  taught  me  how  to  appreciate  the  value 
of  your  assistance;  and  when  "The Dead  Secret " appeared  in  its 
French  form,  although  I  was  sensibly  gratified,  I  was  by  no 
means  surprised  to  find  my  fortunate  work  of  fiction,  not  trans- 
lated, in  the  mechanical  sense  of  the  word,  but  transformed 
from  a  novel  that  I  had  written  in  iny  language  to  a  novel  that 
you  might  have  written  in  yours. 

I  am  now  about  to  ask  you  to  confer  one  more  literary  obligation 
on  me  by  accepting  the  dedication  of  this  book,  as  the  earliest 
acknowledgment  which  it  has  been  in  my  power  to  make  of  the 
debt  I  owe  to  my  critic,  to  my  translator,  and  to  my  friend. 

The  stories  which  form  the  principal  contents  of  the  following 
pages  are  all,  more  or  less,  exercises  in  that  art  which  I  have 
now  sfeudied  anxiously  for  some  years,  and  which  I  still  hope  to 
cultivate,  to  better  and  better  purpose,  for  many  more.  Allow 
>y  inscribing  the  collection  to  you,  to  secure  one  reader  for 
it  at  the  outset  of  its  progress  through  the  world  of  letters  whose 
capacity  for  seeing  all  a  writer's  defects  may  be  matched  by 
many  other  critics,  but  whose  rarer  faculty  of  seeing  all  a  writ- 
er's merits  is  equaled  by  very  few. 

WILKIE  COLLINS, 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WE  were  three  quiet,  lonely  old  men,  and  SHE  was  a  lively, 
handsome  young  woman,  and  we  were  at  our  wits'  end  what  to 
do  with  her. 

A  word  about  ourselves,  first  of  all — a  necessary  word  to  ex- 
plain the  singular  situation  of  our  fair  young  guest. 

We  are  three  brothers;  and  we  live  in  a  barbarous,  dismal  old 
house  called  the  Glen  Tower.  Our  place  of  abode  stands  in  a 
hilly,  lonesome  district  of  South  Wales.  No  such  thing  as  a 
line  of  railway  runs  anywhere  near  us.  No  gentleman's  seat  is 
within  an  easy  drive  of  us.  We  are  at  an  unspeakably  incon- 
venient distance  from  a  town,  and  the  village  to  which  we  send 
for  our  letters  is  three  miles  off. 

My  eldest  brother,  Owen,  was  brought  up  to  the  Church.  All 
the  prime  of  his  life  was  passed  in  a  populous  London  parish. 
For  more  years  than  I  now  like  to  reckon  up,  he  worked  unre- 
mittingly, in  defiance  of  failing  health  and  adverse  fortune, 
amid  the  multitudinous  misery  of  the  London  poor;  and  he 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  sacrificed  his  life  to  his  duty  long 
before  the  present  time  if  the  Glen  Tower  had  not  come  into  his 
possession  through  two  unexpected  deaths  in  the  elder  and 
richer  Uranch  ,of  our  family.  This  opening  to  him  of  a  place  of 
rest  and  refuge  saved  his  life.  No  man  ever  drew  breath  who 
better  .deserved  the  gifts  of  fortune;  for  no  man,  I  sincerely  be- 
lieve, moie  .tender -a?-  others,  more  diffident  of  himself,  more 
gentle,  more  generous,  and  more  simple-hearted  than  Owen,  ever 
walked  this  earth. 

My  second  brother,  Morgan,  started  in  life  as  a  doctor,  and 
learned  all  that  his  profession  could  teach  him  at  home  and 
abroad.  He  realized  a  moderate  independence  by  his  practice, 
beginning  in  one  of  our  large  northern  towns,  and  ending  n 
physician  in  London;  but  although  he  was  well-known  and  ap- 
preciated among  his  brethren,  he  failed  to  gain  that  sort  of 
reputation  with  the  public  which  elevates  a  man  into  the  p< 
tion  of  a  great  doctor.  The  ladies  never  liked  him.  In  the  first 
place,  he  was  ugly  (Morgan  will  excuse  me  for  mentioning  this); 
in  the  second  place,  he  was  an  inveterate  smoker,  and  he  smelt 
of  tobacco  when  he  felt  languid  pulses  in  elegant  bedrooms;  in 
the  third  place,  he  was  the  most  formidably  outspoken  teller  of 
the  truth  as  regarded  himself,  his  profession,  and  his  patients, 
that  ever  imperiled  the  social  standing  of  the  science  of  medi- 
cine. For  these  reasons,  and  for  others  which  it  is  not  necessary  to 
mention,  he  never  pushed  his  way,  as  a  doctor,into  the  front  ranks 
and  he  never  cared  to  do  so.  About  a  year  after  Owen  came 
into  possession  of  the  Glen  Tower,  Morgan  discovered  that  he 
had  saved  as  much  money  for  his  old  age  as  a  sensible  man  could 
want;  that  he  was  tired  of  the  active  pursuit — or,  as  he  term- 
ed it,  of  the  dignified  quackery — of  his  profession;  and  that  it 
was  only  common  charity  to  give  his  invalid  brother  a  compan- 
ion who  could  physic  him  for  nothing,  and  so  prevent  him  from 
getting  rid  of  his  money  in  the  worst  of  all  possible  ways,  by 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  3 

wasting  it  on  doctor's  bills.  In  a  week  after  Morgan  had  ar- 
rived at  these  conclusions,  he  was  settled  at  the  Glen  Tower; 
and  from  that  time,  opposite  as  their  characters  were,  my  two 
elder  brothers  lived  together  in  their  lonely  retreat,  thoroughly 
understanding,  and,  in  their  very  different  ways,  heartily  loving 
one  another. 

Many  years  passed  before  I,  the  youngest  of  the  three — chris- 
tened by  the  unmelodious  name  of  Griffith — found  my  way,  in 
my  turn,  to  the  dreary  old  house,  and  the  sheltering  quiet  of  the 
Welsh  hills.  My  career  in  life  had  led  me  away  from  my  brothers; 
and  even  now,  when  we  are  all  united,  I  have  still  ties  and  inter- 
ests to  connect  me  with  the  outer  world  which  neither  Owen 
nor  Morgan  possess. 

I  was  brought  up  to  the  Bar.  After  my  first  year's  study  of 
the  law,  I  wearied  of  it,  and  strayed  aside  idly  into  the  brighter 
and  more  attractive  paths  of  literature.  My  occasional  occupa- 
tion with  my  pen  was  varied  by  long  traveling  excursions  in  all 
parts  of  the  Continent;  year  by  year  my  circle  of  gay  friends 
and  acquaintances  increased,  and"  I  bade  fair  to  sink  into  the 
condition  of  a  wandering,  desultory  man,  without  a  fixed  pur- 
pose in  life  of  any  sort,  when  I  was  saved  by  what  has  saved 
many  another  in  my  situation — an  attachment  to  a  good  and 
sensible  woman.  By  the  time  I  had  reached  the  age  of  thirty- 
five,  I  had  done  what  neither  of  my  brothers  had  done  before 
me — I  had  married. 

As  a  single  man,  my  own  small  independence,  aided  by  what 
little  additions  to  it  I  could  pick  up  with  my  pen,  had  been  suf- 
ficient for  my  wants;  but  with  marriage  and  its  responsibilities 
came  the  necessity  for  serious  exertion.  I  returned  to  my  neg- 
lected studies,  and  grappled  resolutely,  this  time,  with  the  in- 
tricate difficulties  of  the  law.  I  was  called  to  the  Bar.  My  wife's 
father  aided  me  with  his  interest,  and  I  started  into  practice 
without  difficulty  and  without  delay. 

For  the  next  twenty  years  my  married  life  was  a  scene  of  hap- 
piness and  prosperity,  on  which  T  now  look  back  with  a  grateful 
tenderness  that  no  words  of  mine  can  express.  The  memory  of 
my  wife  is  busy  at  my  heart  while  I  think  of  those  past  times. 
The  forgotten  tears  rise  in  my  eyes  again,  and  trouble  the  course 
of  my  pen  while  it  traces  these  simple  lines. 

Let  me  pass  rapidly  over  the  one  unspeakable  misery  of  my 
life;  let  me  try  and  remember  now,  as  I  tried  to  remember  then, 
that  she  lived  to  see  our  only  child — our  son,  who  was  eo  good 
to  her,  who  is  still  so  good  to  me — grow  up  to  manhood;  that 
her  head  lay  on  my  bosom  when  she  died;  and  that  the  last  frail 
movement  of  her  hand  in  this  world  was  the  movement  that 
brought  it  closer  to  her  boy's  lips. 

I  bore  the  blow — with  God's  help  I  bore  it,  and  bear  it  still. 
But  it  struck  me  away  forever  from  my  hold  on  social  life;  from 
the  purposes  and  pursuits,  the  companions  and  the  pleasures  of 
twenty  years,  which  her  presence  had  sanctioned  and  made 
dear  to  me.  If  my  son  George  had  desired  to  follow  my  profes- 
sion, I  should  still  have  struggled  against  myself,  and  have  kept 
place  in  the  world  until  I  had  seen  him  prosperous  and  set- 


4  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

tied.  But  his  choice  led  him  to  the  army;  and  before  his  moth- 
er's death  he  had  obtained  his  commission,  and  had  entered  on 
his  path  in  life.  No  other  responsibility  remained  to  claim 
from  me  the  sacrifice  of  myself;  my  brothers  had  made  my 
place  ready  for  me  by  their  fireside;  my  heart  yearned,  in  its 
desolation,  for  the  friends  and  companions  of  the  old  boyish 
days;  my  good,  brave  son  promised  that  no  year  should  pass,  as 
long  as  he  was  in  England,  without  his  coming  to  cheer  me; 
and  so  it  happened  that  I,  in  my  turn,  withdrew  from  the  world, 
which  had  once  been  a  bright  and  a  happy  world  to  me,  and  re- 
tired to  end  my  days,  peacefully,  contentedly,  and  gratefully,  as 
my  brothers  are  ending  theirs,  in  the  solitude  of  the  Glen 
Tower. 

How  many  years  have  passed  since  jwe  have  all  three  been 
united  it  is  not  necessary  to  relate.  It  will  be  more  to  the  pur- 
pose if  I  briefly  record  that  we  have  never  been  separated  since 
the  day  which  first  saw  us  assembled  together  in  our  hillside  re- 
treat; that  we  have  never  yet  wearied  of  the  time,  of  the  place, 
or  of  ourselves,  and  that  the  influence  of  solitude  on  our  hearts 
and  minds  has  not  altered  them  for  the  worse,  for  it  has  not  im- 
bittered  us  toward  our  fellow-creatures,  and  it  has  not  dried  up 
in  us  the  source  from  which  harmless  occupations  and  innocent 
pleasures  may  flow  refreshingly  to  the  last  over  the  waste  pla 
of  human  life.  Thus  much  for  our  own  story,  and  for  the  cir- 
cumstances which  have  withdrawn  us  from  the  world  for  the 
rest  of  our  days. 

And  now  imagine  us  three  lonely  old  men,  tall  and  lean,  and 
white-headed;  dressed,  more  from  past  habit  than  from  present 
association,  in  customary  suits  of  solemn  black:  Brother  O\\ 
yielding,  gentle,  and  affectionate  in  look,  voice,  and  manner; 
brother  Morgan,  with  a  quaint,  surface-sourness  of  address,  and 
a  tone  of  dry  sarcasm  in  his  talk,  which  single  him  out,  on  all 
occasions,  as  a  character  in  our  little  circle;  brother  Griffith 
forming  the  link  between  his  two  elder  companions,  capable,  at 
one  time,  of  sympathizing  with  the  quiet,  thoughtful  tone  of 
Owen's  conversation,  and  ready,  at  another,  to  exchange  brisk 
severities  on  life  and  manners  with  Morgan — in  short,  a  plia'1 
double-sided  old  lawyer,  who  stands  between  the  clergy mau- 
brother  and  the  physician  brother  with  an  ear  ready  for  each 
and  with  a  heart  open  to  both,  share  and  share  together. 

Imagine  the  strange  old  building  in  which  we  live  to  be  really 
what  its  name  implies — a  tower  standing  in  a  glen;  in  past  times 
the  fortress  of  a  fighting  Welsh  chieftain;  in  present  times  a 
dreary  Ian  J-light-house,  built  up  in  many  stories  of  two  rooms 
each,  with  a  little  modern  lean-to  of  cottage  form  tacked  on 
quaintly  to  one  of  its  sides;  the  great  hill,  on  whose  lowest  slope 
it  stands,  rising  precipitously  behind  it;  a  dark,  swift-flowing 
stream  in  the  valley  below;  hills  on  hills  all  around,  and  no  way 
of  approach  but  by  one  of  the  loneliest  and  wildest  cross-roads 
in  all  South  Wales. 

Imagine  such  a  place  of  abode  as  this  and  such  inhabitants  of 
it  as  ourselves,  and  then  picture  the  descent  among  us — as  of  a 
goddess  dropping  from  the  clouds— of  a  lively,  handsom 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  5 

ionable  young  lady — a  bright,  gay,  butterfly  creature,  used  to 
flutter  away  its  existence  in  the  broad  sunshine  of  perpetual 
gayety — a  child  of  the  new  generation,  with  all  the  modern  ideas 
whirling  together  in  her  pretty  head,  and  all  the  modern  accom- 
plishments at  the  tips  of  her  delicate  fingers.  Imagine  such  a 
light-hearted  daughter  of  Eve  as  this,  the  spoiled  darling  of  soci- 
ety, the  charming  spendthrift  of  Nature's  choicest  treasures  of 
beauty  and  youth,  suddenly  flashing  into  the  dim  life  of  three 
weary  old  men — suddenly  dropping  into  the  place,  of  all  others, 
which  is  least  fit  for  her — suddenly  shut  out  from  the  world  in 
the  lonely  quiet  of  the  loneliest  home  in  England.  Realize,  if  it 
be  possible,  all  that  is  most  whimsical  and  most  anomalous  in 
such  a  situation  as  this,  and  the  startling  confession  contained 
in  the  opening  sentence  of  these  pages  will  no* longer  excite  the 
faintest  emotion  of  surprise.  Who  can  wonder  now,  when  our 
bright  young  goddess  really  descended  on  us,  that  I  and  my 
brothers  were  all  three  at  our  wits'  end  what  to  do  with  her! 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHO  is  the  young  lady  ?  And  how  did  she  find  her  way  into 
the  Glen  Tower? 

Her  name  (in  relation  to  which  I  shall  have  something  to  say 
a  little  further  on)  is  Jessie  Yelverton.  She  is  an  orphan  and 
an  only  child.  Her  mother  died  while  she  was  an  infant;  her 
father  was  my  dear  and  valued  friend  Major  Yelverton.  He 
lived  long  enough  to  celebrate  his  darling's  seventh  birthday. 
When  he  died  he  intrusted  his  authority  over  her  and  his  re- 
sponsibility toward  her  to  his  brother  and  to  me. 

When  I  was  summoned  to  the  reading  of  the  major's  will,  I 
knew  perfectly  well  that  I  should  hear  myself  appointed  guard- 
ian and  executor  with  his  brother:  and  I  had  been  also  made 
acquainted  with  my  lost  friend's  wishes  as  to  his  daughter's  ed- 
ucation, and  with  his  intentions  as  to  the  disposal  of  all  his  prop- 
erty in  her  favor.  My  own  idea,  therefore,  was,  that  the  read- 
ing of  the  will  would  inform  me  of  nothing  which  I  had  not 
known  in  the  testator's  lifetime.  When  the  day  came  for  hear- 
ing it,  however,  I  found  that  I  had  been  over  hasty  in  arriving 
at  this  conclusion.  Toward  the  end  of  the  docunent  there  was 
a  clause  inserted  which  took  me  entirely  by  surprise. 

After  providing  for  the  education  of  Miss  Yelverton  under  the 
direction  of  her  guardians,  and  for  her  residence,  under  ordinary 
circumstances,  with  the  major's  sister,  Lady  Westwick,  the 
clause  concluded  by  saddling  the  child's  future  inheritance  with 
this  curious  condition; 

From  the  period  of  her  leaving  school  to  the  period  of  her 
reaching  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  Miss  Yelverton  was  to  pass 
not  less  than  six  consecutive  weeks  out  of  every  year  under  the 
roof  of  one  of  her  two  guardians.  During  the  lives  of  both  of 
them,  it  was  left  to  her  own  choice  to  say  which  of  the  two  she 
would  prefer  to  live  with.  In  all  other  respects  the  condition 
was  imperative.  If  she  forfeited  it,  excepting,  of  course,  the 


6  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

case  of  the  deaths  of  both  her  guardians,  ehe  was  only  to  have  a 
life-interest  in  the  property;  if  she  obeyed  it,  the  money  itself 
was  to  become  her  own  possession  on  the  day  when  she  com- 
pleted her  twenty-first  year. 

This  clause  in  the  will,  as  I  have  said,  took  me  at  first  by  sur- 
prise. I  remembered  how  devotedly  Lady  Westwick  had  soothed 
her  sister-in-law's  death-bed  sufferings,  and  how  tenderly  she  had 
afterward  watched  over  the  welfare  of  the  little  motherless  child 
— I  remembered  the  innumerable  claims  she  had  established  in 
this  way  on  her  brother's  confidence  in  her  affection  for  his 
orphan  daughter,  and  I  was,  therefore,  naturally  amazed  at  the 
appearance  of  a  condition  in  his  will  which  seemed  to  show  a 
positive  distrust  of  Lady  "Westwick's  undivided  influence  over 
the  character  and  conduct  of  her  niece. 

A  few  words  from  my  fellow- guardian,  Mr.  Richard  Yelver- 
ton,  and  a  little  after-consideration  of  some  of  my  deceased 
friend's  peculiarities  of  disposition  and  feeling,  to  which  I  had 
not  hitherto  attached  sufficient  importance,  were  enough  to  make 
me  understand  the  motives  by  which  he  had  been  influenced  in 
providing  for  the  future  of  his  child. 

Major  Yelverton  had  raised  himself  to  a  position  of  affluence 
and  eminence  from  a  very  humble  origin.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
small  farmer,  and  it  was  his  pride  never  to  forget  this  circum- 
stance, never  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  and  never  to  allow  the  preju- 
dices of  society  to  influence  his  own  settled  opinions  on  social 
questions  in  general. 

Acting  in  all  that  related  to  his  intercourse  with  the  world, 
on  such  principles  as  these,  the  major,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to 
say,  held  some  strangely  heterodox  opinions  on  the  modern 
education  of  girls,  and  on  the  evil  influence  of  society  over  the 
characters  of  women  in  general.  Out  of  the  strength  of  those 
opinions,  and  out  of  the  certainty  of  his  conviction  that  his  sister 
did  not  share  them,  had  grown  that  condition  in  his  will  which 
removed  his  daughter  from  the  influence  of  her  aunt,  for  six  con- 
secutive weeks  in  every  year.  Lady  Westwick  was  the  most  light- 
hearted,  the  most  generous,  the  most  impulsive  of  women;  capable 
when  any  serious  occasion  called  it  forth,  of  all  that  was  devoted 
and  self-sacrificing,  but,  at  other  and  ordinary  times,  constitu- 
tionally restless,  frivolous,  and  eager  for  perpetual  gayety.  Dis- 
tnisting  the  sort  of  life  which  he  knew  his  daughter  would  lead 
under  her  aunt's  roof,  and  at  the  same  time  gratefully  remem- 
bering his  sister's  affectionate  devotion  toward  his  dying  wife 
and  her  helpless  infant,  Major  Yelverton  had  attempted  to  make 
a  compromise,  which,  while  it  allowed  Lady  Westwick  the  close 
domestic  intercourse  with  her  niece  that  she  had  earned  by  in- 
numerable kind  offices,  should,  at  the  same  time,  place  the  young 
girl  for  a  fixed  period  of  every  year  of  her  minority  under  the 
corrective  care  of  two  such  quiet  old-fashioned  guardians  as  his 
brother  and  myself.  Such  is  the  history  of  the  clause  in  the 
will.  My  friend  little  thought,  when  he  dictated  it,  of  the  ex- 
traordinary result  to  which  it  was  one  day  to  lead. 

For  some  years,  however,  events  ran  on  smoothly  enough. 
Little  Jessie  was  sent  to  an  excellent  school,  with  strict  instruc- 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  7 

tions  to  the  mistress  to  make  a  good  girl  of  her,  and  not  a  fash- 
ionable young  lady.  Although  she  was  reported  to  be  anything 
but  a  pattern  pupil  in  respect  of  attention  to  her  lessons,  she 
became  from  the  first  the  chosen  favorite  of  every  one  about  her. 
The  very  offenses  which  she  committed  against  the  discipline  of 
the  school  were  of  the  sort  which  provoke  a  smile  even  on  the 
stern  countenance  of  authority  itself.  One  of  these  quaint 
freaks  of  mischief  may  not  inappropriately  be  mentioned  here, 
inasmuch  as  it  gained  her  the  pretty  nickname  under  which  she 
will  be  found  to  appear  occasionally  in  these  pages. 

On  a  certain  autumn  night  shortly  after  the  midsummer  va- 
cation, the  mistress  of  the  school  fancied  she  saw  a  light  under 
the  door  of  the  bedroom  occupied  by  Jessie  and  three  other  girls. 
It  was  then  close  on  midnight;  and,  fearing  that  some  case  of 
sudden  illness  might  have  happened,  she  hastened  into  the 
room.  On  opening  the  door,  she  discovered,  to  her  horror  and 
amazement,  that  all  four  girls  were  out  of  bed — were  dressed  in 
brilliantly  fantastic  costumes,  representing  the  four  grotesque 
" Queens"  of  Hearts,  Diamonds,  Spades,  and  Clubs,  familiar  to 
us  all  on  the  pack  of  cards— and  were  dancing  a  quadrille,  in 
which  Jessie  sustained  the  character  of  the  Queen  of  Hearts. 
The  next  morning's  investigation  disclosed  that  Miss  Yelvertou 
had  smuggled  the  dresses  into  the  school,  and  had  amused  her- 
self by  giving  an  impromptu  fancy  ball  to  her  companions,  in 
imitation  of  an  entertainment  of  the  same  kind  at  which  she 
had  figured  in  a  "court-card"  quadrille  at  her  aunt's  country 
house. 

The  dresses  were  instantly  confiscated,  and  the  necessary  pun- 
ishment promptly  administered;  but  the  remembrance  of  Jes- 
sie's extraordinary  outrage  on  bedroom  discipline  lasted  long 
enough  to  become  one  of  the  traditions  of  the  school,  and  she 
and  her  sister-culprits  were  thenceforth  hailed  as  the  "  queens  " 
of  the  four  "  suites  "  by  their  class- companions  whenever  the 
mistress'  back  was  turned.  Whatever  might  have  become  of 
the  nicknames  thus  employed  in  relation  to  the  other  three  girls, 
such  a  mock  title  as  the  Queen  of  Hearts  was  too  appropriately 
descriptive  of  the  natural  charm  of  Jessie's  character,  as  well  as 
of  the  adventure  in  which  she  had  taken  the  lead,  not  to  rise 
naturally  to  the  lips  of  every  one  who  knew  her.  It  followed 
her  to  her  aunt's  house — ife  came  to  be  as  habitually  and  fa- 
miliarly connected  with  her,  among  her  friends  of  alleges,  as  if  it 
had  been  formally  inscribed  on  her  baptismal  register;  and  it 
has  stolen  its  way  into  these  pages  because  it  falls  from  my  peu 
naturally  and  inevitably,  exactly  as  it  often  falls  from  my  lips 
in  real  life. 

When  Jessie  left  school  the  first  difficulty  presented  itself;  in 
other  words  the  necessity  arose  of  fulfilling  the  conditions  of  the 
will.  At  that  time  I  was  already  settled  at  the  Glen  Tower,  and 
her  living  six  weeks  in  our  dismal  solitude  and  our  humdrum 
society,  was,  as  she  herself  frankly  wrote  me  word,  quite  out  of 
the  question.  Fortunately,  she  had  always  got  on  well  with  her 
uncle  and  his  family;  so  she  exerted  her  liberty  of  choice,  and 
much  to  her  own  relief  and  to  mine  also,  passed  her  regular  six 


8  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

weeks  of  probation,  year  after  year,  under  Mr.  Richard  Yelver- 
ton's  roof. 

During  this  period  I  heard  of  her  regularly,  sometimes  from 
my  fellow-guardian,  sometimes  from  my  son  George,  who,  when- 
ever his  military  duties  allowed  him  the  opportunity,  contrived 
to  see  her,  now  at  her  aunt's  house,  and  now  at  Mr.  Yelverton's. 
The  particulars  of  her  character  and  conduct,  which  I  gleaned 
in  this  way,  more  than  sufficed  to  convince  me  that  the  poor 
major's  plan  for  the  careful  training  of  his  daughter's  disposi- 
tion, though  plausible  enough  in  theory,  was  little  better  than  a 
total  failure  in  practice.  Miss  Jessie,  to  use  the  expressive  com- 
mon phrase,  took  after  her  aunt.  She  was  as  generous,  as  im- 
pulsive, as  light-hearted,  as  fond  of  change,  and  gayety,  and  fine 
clothes — in  short,  as  complete  and  genuine  a  woman  as  Lady 
West  wick  herself.  It  was  impossible  to  reform  the  "  Queen  of 
Hearts,"  and  equally  impossible  not  to  love  her.  Such,  in  few 
words,  was  my  fellow-guardian's  report  of  his  experience  of  our 
handsome  young  ward. 

So  the  time  passed  till  the  year  came  of  which  I  am  now  writ- 
ing— the  ever-memorable  year,  to  England,  of  the  Russian  war. 
It  happened  that  I  had  heard  less  than  usual  at  this  period,  and 
indeed  for  many  months  before  it,  of  Jessie  and  her  procfvd- 
ings.  My  son  had  been  ordered  out  with  his  regiment  to  the 
Crimea  in  1854,  and  had  other  work  in  hand  now  than  record- 
ing the  sayings  and  doings  of  a  young  lady.  Mr.  Richard  Yel- 
verton,  who  had  been  hitherto  used  to  write  to  me  with  tolera- 
ble regularity,  seemed  now,  for  some  reason  that  I  could  not 
conjecture,  to  have  forgotten  my  existence.  Ultimately  I  v 
reminded  of  my  ward  by  one  of  George's  own  letters,  in  which 
he  asked  for  news  of  her:  and  I  wrote  at  once  to  Mr.  Yelverton. 
The  answer  that  reached  me  was  written  by  his  wife;  he  \ 
dangerously  ill.  The  next  letter  that  came  informed  me  of  his 
death.  This  happened  early  in  the  spring  of  the  year  1855. 

I  am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  but  the  change  irTmy  own  posi- 
tion was  the  first  idea  that  crossed  my  mind  when  I  read  the 
news  of  Mr.  Yelverton's  death.  I  was  now  left  sole  guardian, 
and  Jessie  Yelverton  wanted  a  year  still  of  coming  of  age. 

By  the  next  day's  post  I  wrote  to  her  about  the  altered  state 
of  the  relations  between  us.     She  was  then  on  the  Continent  with 
her  aunt,  having  gone  abroad  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  y. 
Consequently,  so  far  as  eighteen  hundred  and  fifty- five  was  c 
cerned,  the  condition   exacted    by  the  will  yet  remained  to  be 
performed.     She  had  still  six  weeks  to  pass — her  last  six  weeks, 
seeing  that  she  was  now  twenty  years  old — under  the  roof  of  one 
of  her  guardians,  and  I  was  now  the  only  guardian  left. 

In  due  course  of  time  I  received  my  answer,  written  on  rose- 
colored  paper,  and  expressed  throughout  in  a  tone  of  light,  e, 
feminine  banter,  which  amused  me  in  spite  of  myself.     I\ 
Jessie,  according  to  her  own  account,  was  hesitating,  on  receipt, 
of  my  letter,  between  two  alternatives — the  one,  of  allowing  1. 
self  to  be  buried  six  weeks  in  the  Glen  Tower;  the  other,  of 
breaking  the  condition,  giving  up  the  money,  and   remaining 
magnanimously  contented  with  nothing  but  a  life- interest  in  her 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  9 

father's  property.  At  present  she  inclined  decidedly  toward 
giving  up  the  money,  and  escaping  the  clutches  of  "  three  hor- 
rid old  men;"  but  she  would  let  me  know  again  if  she  happened 
to  change  her  mind.  And  so,  with  best  love,  she  would  beg  to 
remain  always  affectionately  mine,  as  long  as  she  was  well  out 
of  my  reach. 

The  summer  passed,  the  autumn  came,  and  I  never  heard 
from  her  again.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  this  long  silence 
might  have  made  me  feel  a  little  uneasy.  But  news  reached  me 
about  this  time  from  the  Crimea  that  my  son  was  wounded — not 
dangerously,  thank  God,  but  still  severely  enough  to  be  laid  up 
— and  all  my  anxieties  were  now  centered  in  that  direction.  By 
the  beginning  of  September,  however,  I  got  better  accounts  of 
him,  and  my  mind  was  made  easy  enough  to  let  me  think  of  Jes- 
sie again.  Just  as  I  was  considering  the  necessity  of  writing 
once  more  to  my  refractory  ward,  a  second  letter  arrived  from 
her.  She  had  returned  at  last  from  abroad,  had  suddenly  chang- 
ed her  mind,  suddenly  grown  sick  of  society,  suddenly  become 
enamored  of  the  pleasures  of  retirement,  and  suddenly  found 
out  that  the  three  horrid  old  men  were  three  dear  old  men,  and 
that  six  weeks'  solitude  at  the  Glen  Tower  was  the  luxury,  of 
all  others,  that  she  languished  for  most.  As  a  necessary  result 
of  this  altered  state  of  things  she  would  therefore  now  propose 
to  spend  her  allotted  six  weeks  with  her  guardian.  We  might 
certainly  expect  her  on  the  twentieth  of  September,  and  she 
would  take  the  greatest  care  to  fit  herself  for  our  society  by  arriv- 
ing in  the  lowest  possible  spirits  and  bringing  her  own  sackcloth 
and  ashes  along  with  her. 

Tho  first  ordeal  to  which  this  alarming  letter  forced  me  to  sub- 
mit was  the  breaking  of  the  news  it  contained  to  my  two  broth- 
ers. The  disclosure  affected  them  very  differently.  Poor  dear 
Owen  merely  turned  pale,  lifted  his  weak,  thin  hands  in  a  panic- 
stricken  manner,  and  then  sat  staring  at  me  in  speechless  and 
motionless  bewilderment.  Morgan  stood  up  straight  before  me, 
plunged  both  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  burst  suddenly  into  the 
harshest  laugh  I  ever  heard  from  his  lips,  and  told  me,  with  an 
air  of  triumph,  that  it  was  exactly  what  he  expected. 

"  What  you  expected?"  I  repeated,  in  astonishment. 

"Yes,"  returned  Morgan,  with  his  bitterest  emphasis.  "It 
doesn't  surprise  me  in  the  least.  It's  the  way  things  go  in  this 
world — it's  the  regular  moral  see-saw  of  good  and  evil — the  old 
story  with  the  old  end  to  it.  They  were  too  happy  in  the  garden 
of  Eden — down  comes  the  serpent  and  turns  them  out.  Solomon 
was  too  wise — down  comes  the  Queen  of  Sheba  and  makes  a  fool 
of  him.  We've  been  too  comfortable  at  the  Glen  Tower — down 
comes  a  woman  and  sets  us  all  three  by  the  ears  together.  All  I 
wonder  at  is  that  it  hasn't  happened  before."  With  those  words 
Morgan  resignedly  took  out  his  pipe,  put  on  his  old  felt  hat  and 
turned  to  the  door. 

"  You're  not  going  away  before  she  comes  ?"  exclaimed  Owen, 
piteously.  "  Don't  leave  us — please  don't  leave  us!" 

"Going!"  cried  Morgan,  with  great  con  tempt.  "  What  should 
I  gain  by  that  ?  When  destiny  has  found  a  man  out,  and  heated 


10  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

his  gridiron  for  him,  he  has  nothing  left  to  do,  that  I  know  of, 
but  to  get  up  and  sit  on  it." 

I  opened  my  lips  to  protest  against  the  implied  comparison  be- 
tween a  young  lady  and  a  hot  gridiron,  but,  before  I  could 
speak,  Morgan  was  gone. 

"  Well,"  I  said  to  Owen,  "  we  must  make  the  best  of  it.  We 
must  brush  up  our  manners,  and  set  the  house  tidy,  and  amuse 
her  as  well  as  we  can.  The  difficulty  is  where  to  put  her;  and, 
when  that  is  settled,  the  next  puzzle  will  be,  what  to  order  in  to 
make  her  comfortable.  It's  a  hard  thing,  brother,  to  say  what 
will  or  what  will  not  please  a  young  lady's  taste." 

Owen  looked  absently  at  me,  in  greater  bewilderment  than 
ever — opened  his  eyes  in  perplexed  consideration — repeated  to 
himself  slowly  the  word  "tastes"— and  then  helped  me  with 
this  suggestion: 

"  Hadn't  we  better  begin,  Griffith,  by  getting  her  a  plum-cake  ?" 

"My  dear  Owen,"  I  remonstrated,  "it  is  a  grown  young 
woman  who  is  coming  to  see  us;  not  a  little  girl  from  school." 

"Oh!"  said  Owen,  more  confused  than  before.  "Yes — I  see; 
we  couldn't  do  wrong,  I  suppose — could  we? — if  we  got  her  a 
little  dog,  and  a  lot  of  new  gowns  ?" 

There  was,  evidently,  no  more  help  in  the  wav  of  advice  to  be 
expected  from  Owen  than  from  Morgan  himself.  As  I  came  to 
that  conclusion,  I  saw  through  the  window  our  old  housekeeper 
on  her  way,  with  her  basket,  to  the  kitchen-garden,  and  left  the 
room  to  ascertain  if  she  could  assist  us. 

To  my  great  dismay,  the  housekeeper  took  even  a  more  gloomy 
view  than  Morgan  of  the  approaching  event.     When  I  had  ex- 
plained all  the  circumstances  to  her,  she  carefully  put  down  her 
basket,  crossed  her  arms,  and  said  to  me  in  slow,  deliber; 
mysterious  tones: 

"  You  want  my  advice  about  what's  to  be  done  with  this 
young  woman?  Well,  sir,  here's  my  advice:  Don't  you 
trouble  your  head  about  her.  It  won't  be  no  use.  Mind,  I  tell 
you,  it  won't  be  no  use." 

"  What  do  you  mean?" 

"  You  look  at  this  place,  sir — it's  more  like  a  prison  than  a 
house,  isn't  it  ?  You  look  at  us  as  lives  in  it.  We've  got  (saving 
your  presence)  a  foot  apiece  in  our  graves,  haven't  we?  When 
you  was  young  yourself,  sir,  what  would  you  have  done  if  they 
had  shut  you  up  for  six  weeks  in  such  a  place  as  this,  among 
your  grandfathers  and  grandmothers,  with  their  feet  in  the 
grave." 

"  I  really  can't  say." 

"  I  can,  sir.  You'd  have  run  away.  She'll  run  away.  Don't 
you  worry  your  head  about  her — she'll  save  you  the  trouble.  I 
tell  you  again  she'll  run  away." 

With  those  ominous  words  the  housekeeper  took  up  her  basket, 
sighed  heavily,  and  left  me. 

I  sat  down  under  a  tree  quite  helpless.  Here  was  the  whole 
responsibility  shifted  upon  my  miserable  shoulders.  Not  a  lady 
in  the  neighborhood  to  whom  I  could  apply  for  assistance,  and 
the  nearest  shop  eight  miles  distant  frpjn,  u,s,  Jfce  toughest  case 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  11 

1  ever  had  to  conduct,  when  I  was  at  the  Bar,  was  plain  sailing 
compared  with  the  difficulty  of  receiving  our  fair  guest. 

It  was  absolutely  necessary,  however,  to  decide  at  once  where 
she  was  to  sleep.  All  the  rooms  m  the  tower  were  of  stone — 
dark,  gloomy,  and  cold  even  in  the  summer-time.  Impossible 
to  put  her  in  any  one  of  them.  The  only  other  alternative  was 
to  lodge  her  in  the  little  modern  lean-to,  which  I  have  already 
described  as  being  tacked  on  to  the  side  of  the  old  building.  It 
contained  three  cottage  rooms,  and  they  might  be  made  barely 
habitable  for  a  young  lady.  But  then  those  rooms  were  occu- 
pied by  Morgan.  His  books  were  in  one,  his  bed  was  in  another, 
his  pipes  and  general  lumber  were  in  the  third.  Could  I  expect 
him,  after  the  sour  similitudes  he  had  used  in  reference  to  our 
expected  visitor,  to  turn  put  of  his  habitation  and  disarrange  all 
his  habits  for  her  convenience?  The  bare  idea  of  proposing  the 
thing  to  him  seemed  ridiculous;  and  yet  inexorable  necessity 
left  me  no  choice  but  to  make  the  hopeless  experiment.  I  walked 
back  to  the  tower  hastily  and  desperately,  to  face  the  worst 
that  might  happen  before  my  courage  cooled  altogether. 

On  crossing  the  threshold  of  the  hall  door  I  was  stopped,  to  my 
great  amazement,  by  a  procession  of  three  of  the  farm-servants, 
followed  by  Morgan,  all  walking  after  each  other,  in  Indian  file, 
toward  the  spiral  staircase  that  led  to  the  top  of  the  tower.  The 
first  of  the  servants  carried  the  materials  for  making  a  fire;  the 
second  bore  an  inverted  arm-chair  on  his  head;  the  third  tottered 
under  a  heavy  load  of  books;  while  Morgan  came  last,  with  his 
canister  of  tobacco  in  his  hand,  his  dressing  gown  over  his 
shoulder,  and  his  whole  collection  of  pipes  hugged  up  together 
in  a  bundle  under  his  arm. 

"  What  on  earth  does  this  mean  ?"  I  inquired. 

"  It  means  taking  Time  by  the  forelock,"  answered  Morgan, 
looking  at  me  with  a  smile  of  spur  satisfaction.  "  I've  got  the 
start  of  your  young  woman,  Griffith,  and  I'm  making  the  most 
of  it." 

"  But  where,  in  Heaven's  name,  are  you  going?"!  asked,  as 
the  head  man  of  the  procession  disappeared  with  his  firing  up 
the  staircase. 

"  How  high  is  this  tower?"  retorted  Morgan. 

"  Seven  stories,  to  be  sure,"  I  replied. 

"  Very  good,"  said  my  eccentric  brother,  setting  his  foot  on  the 
first  stair,  "  I'm  going  up  to  the  seventh.'' 

"  You  can't,"  I  shouted. 

"She  can't,  you  mean,"  said  Morgan,  "and  that's  exactly  why 
I'm  going  there." 

'  But  the  room  is  not  furnished." 

'  It's  out  of  her  reach." 

'  One  of  the  windows  has  fallen  to  pieces." 

'  It's  out  of  her  reach." 

'  There's  a  crow's  nest  in  the  corner." 

'  It's  out  of  her  reach." 

By  the  time  this  unanswerable  argument  had  attained  its  third 
repetition,  Morgan,  in  his  turn,  had  disappeared  up  the  winding 
stairs.  I  knew  him  too  well  to  attempt  any  further  protest. 


12  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

Here  was  my  first  difficulty,  smoothed  away  most  unexpect- 
edly, for  here  were  the  rooms  in  the  lean-to  placed  by  their  own- 
er's free  act  and  deed  at  my  disposal.  I  wrote  on  the  spot  to  the 
one  upholsterer  of  our  distant  county  town  to  come  immediately 
and  survey  the  premises,  and  sent  off  a  mounted  messenger  with 
the  letter.  This  done,  and  the  necessary  order  also  dispatched  to 
the  carpenter  and  glazier  to  set  them  at  work  on  Morgan's  sky- 
parlor  in  the  seventh  story,  I  began  to  feel,  for  the  first  time,  as 
if  my  scattered  wits  were  coming  back  to  me.  By  the  time  the 
evening  had  closed  in  I  had  hit  on  no  less  than  three  excellent 
ideas,  all  providing  for  the  future  comfort  and  amusement  of 
our  fair  guest.  The  first  idea  was  to  get  her  a  Welsh  pony;  the 
second  was  to  hire  a  piano  from  the  county  town;  the  third  was 
to  send  for  a  boxful  of  novels  from  London.  I  must  confess  I 
thought  these  projects  for  pleasing  her  very  happily  conceived, 
and  Owen  agreed  with  me.  Morgan,  as  usual,  took  the  opposite 
view.  He  said  she  would  yawn  over  the  novels,  turn  up  her 
nose  at  the  piano,  and  fracture  her  skull  with  the  pony.  As  for 
the  housekeeper,  she  stuck  to  her  text  as  stoutly  in  the  evening 
as  she  had  stuck  to  it  in  the  morning.  "  Pianner  or  no  pianner, 
story-book  or  no  story-book,  pony  or  no  pony,  you  mark  my 
words,  sir — that  young  woman  will  run  away." 

Such  were  the  housekeeper's  parting  vyords  when  she  wished 
me  good-night. 

When  the  next  morning  came,  and  brought  with  it  that  ter- 
rible waking  time  which  sets  a  man's  hopes  and  projects  before 
him,  the  great  as  well  as  the  small,  stripped  bare  of  every  illu- 
sion, it  is  not  to  be  concealed  that  I  felt  less  sanguine  of  our 
success  in  entertaining  the  coming  guest.  So  far  as  external 
preparations  were  concerned,  there  seemed,  indeed,  but  little  to 
improve;  but,  apart  from  these,  what  had  we  to  offer,  in  our- 
selves and  our  society,  to  attract  her?  There  lay  the  knotty 
point  of  the  question,  and  there  the  grand  difficulty  of  finding 
an  answer. 

I  fall  into  serious  reflection,  while  I  am  dressing,  on  the  pur- 
suits and  occupations  with  which  we  three  brothers  have  been 
accustomed,  for  years  past,  to  beguile  the  time.  Are  they  at  all 
likely,  in  the  case  of  any  one  of  us,  to  interest  or  amuse  her? 

My  chief  occupation,  to  begin  with  the  youngest,  consists  in 
acting  as  steward  on  Owen's  property.  The  routine  of  niy 
duties  has  never  lost  its  sober  attraction  to  my  tastes,  for  it  has 
always  employed  me  in  watching  the  best  interests  of  my 
brother,  and  of  my  son  also,  who  is  one  day  to  be  his  heir.  But 
can  I  expect  our  fair  guest  to  sympathize  with  such  family  con- 
cerns as  these  ?  Clearly  not. 

Morgan's  pursuit  comes  next  in  order  of  review— a  pursuit  of 
a  far  more  ambitious  nature  than  mine.  It  was  always  part  of 
my  second  brother's  whimsical,  self-contradictory  character  to 
view  with  the  profoundest  contempt  the  learned  profession  by 
which  he  gained  his  livelihood,  and  he  is  now  occupying  the 
long  leisure  hours  of  his  old  age  in  composing  a  voluminous 
treatise,  intended,  one  of  these  days,  to  eject  the  whole  body 
corporate  of  doctors  from  the  position  which  they  have  usurped 


QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  13 

in  the  estimation  of  their  fellow-creatures.  This  daring  work  is 
entitled  "An  Examination  of  the  Claims  of  Medicine  on  the 
Gratitude  of  Mankind.  Decided  in  the  Negative  by  a  Retired 
Physician."  So  far  as  I  can  tell,  the  book  is  likely  to  ex- 
tend to  the  dimensions  of  an  Encyclopedia;  for  it  is  Morgan's 
Elan  to  treat  his  comprehensive  subject  principally  from  the 
istorical  point  of  view,  and  to  run  down  all  the  doctors  of  an- 
tiquity, one  after  another,  in  regular  succession,  from  the  first 
of  the  tribe.  When  I  last  heard  of  his  progress  he  was  hard  on 
the  heels  of  Hippocrates,  but  had  no  immediate  prospect  of  trip- 
ping up  his  successor.  Is  this  the  sort  of  occupation  (I  ask  my- 
self) in  which  a  modern  young  lady  is  likely  to  feel  the  slightest 
interest  ?  Once  again,  clearly  not. 

Owen's  favorite  employment  is,  in  its  way,  quite  as  character- 
istic as  Morgan's,  and  it  has  the  great  additional  advantage  of 
appealing  to  a  much  larger  variety  of  tastes.  My  eldest  brother 
— great  at  drawing  and  painting  when  he  was  a  lad,  always  in- 
terested in  artists  and  their  works  in  after  life — has  resumed,  in 
his  declining  years,  the  holiday  occupation  of  his  schoolboy  days. 
As  an  amateur  landscape-painter,  he  works  with  more  satisfac- 
tion to  himself,  uses  more  color,  wears  out  more  brushes,  and 
makes  a  greater  smell  of  paint  in  his  studio  than  any  artist  by 
profession,  native  or  foreign,  whom  I  ever  met  with.  In  look, 
in  manner,  and  in  disposition,  the  gentlest  of  mankind,  Owen, 
by  some  singular  anomaly  in  his  character,  which  he  seems  to 
have  caught  from  Morgan,  glories  placidly  in  the  wildest  and 
most  frightful  range  of  subjects  which  his  art  is  capable  of  rep- 
resenting. Immeasurable  ruins,  in  howling  wildernesses,  with 
blood-red  sunsets  gleaming  over  them;  thunder-clouds  rent  with 
lightning,  hovering  over  splitting  trees  on  the  verges  of  awful 
precipices;  hurricanes,  shipwrecks,  waves,  and  whirlpools  fol- 
low each  other  on  his  canvas,  without  an  intervening  glimpse 
of  quiet,  every-day  nature  to  relieve  the  succession  of  pictorial 
horrors.  When  I  see  him  at  his  easel,  so  neat  and  quiet,  so  un- 
pretending and  modest  in  himself,  with  such  a  composed  ex- 
pression on  his  attentive  face,  with  such  a  weak,  white  hand  to 
guide  such  bold,  big  brushes,  and  when  I  look  at  the  frightful 
canvasful  of  terrors  which  he  is  serenely  aggravating  in  fierce- 
ness and  intensity  with  every  successive  touch,  I  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  realize  the  connection  between  my  brother  and  his  work, 
though  I  see  them  before  me  not  six  inches  apart.  Will  thto 
quaint  spectacle  possess  any  humorous  attractions  for  Miss 
Jessie?  Perhaps  it  may.  There  is  some  slight  chance  that 
Owen's  employment  will  be  lucky  enough  to  interest  her. 

Thus  far  my  morning  cogitations  advance  doubtfully  enough, 
but  they  altogether  fail  in  carrying  me  beyond  the  narrow  circle 
of  the  Glen  Tower.  I  try  hard,  in  our  visitor's  interest,  to  look 
into  the  resources  .of  the  little  world  around  us,  and  I  find  my 
efforts  rewarded  by  the  prospect  of  a  total  blank. 

Is  there  any   presentable,   living  soul  in  the  neighborhood 

whom  we  can  invite  to  meet  her  ?    Not  one.     There  are,  as  J 
have  already  said,  no  country  seats  near  us;  and  society  in 

country  town  has  long  since  learned  to  regard  us  as  thre>  ' 


14  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

anthropes,  strongly  suspected,  from  our  monastic  way  of  life 
and  our  dismal  black  costume,  of  being  popish  priests  in  dis- 
guise. In  other  parts  of  England  the  clergymen  of  the  parish 
might  help  us  out  of  our  difficulty;  but  here,  in  South  Wales, 
and  in  this  latter  half  of  the  nineteenth  century,  we  have  the 
old-type  parson  of  the  days  of  Fielding  still  in  a  state  of  perfect 
preservation.  Our  local  clergyman  receives  a  stipend  which  is 
too  paltry  to  bear  comparison  with  the  wages  of  an  ordinary 
mechanic.  In  dress,  manners,  and  tastes  he  is  about  on  a  level 
with  the  upper  class  of  agricultural  laborer.  When  attempts 
have  been  made  by  well-meaning  gentlefolks  to  recognize  the 
claims  of  his  profession  by  asking  him  to  their  houses,  he  has 
been  known,  on  more  than  one  occasion,  to  leave  his  plowman's 
pair  of  shoes  in  the  hall,  and  to  enter  the  drawing-room  respect- 
fully in  his  stockings.  Where  he  preaches,  miles  and  miles 
away  from  us  and  from  the  poor  cottage  in  which  he  lives,  if  he 
sees  any  of  the  company  in  the  squire's  pew  yawn  or  fidget  in 
their  places,  he  takes  it  a?  a  hint  that  they  are  tired  of  listening, 
and  closes  his  sermon  instantly  at  the  end  of  the  sentence.  Can 
we  ask  this  most  irreverend  and  unclerical  of  men  to  meet  a 
young  lady?  I  doubt,  even  if  we  made  the  attempt,  whether 
we  should  succeed,  by  fair  means,  in  getting  him  beyond  the 
servants'  hall. 

Dismissing,  therefore,  any  idea  of  inviting  visitors  to  entertain 
our  guest,  and  feeling  at  the  same  time,  more  than  doubtful  of 
her  chance  of  discovering  any  attraction  in  the  sober  society  of 
the  inmates  of  the  house,  I  finish  my  dressing  and  go  down  to 
breakfast,  secretly  veering  round  to  the  housekeeper's  opinion 
that  Miss  Jessie  will  really  bring  matters  to  an  abrupt  conclusion 
by  running  away.  I  find  Morgan  as  bitterly  resigned  to  his  des- 
tiny as  ever,  and  Owen  so  affectionately  anxious  to  make  him- 
self of  some  use,  and  so  lamentably  ignorant  of  how  to  begin, 
that  I  am  driven  to  disembarrass  myself  of  him  at  the  outset  by 
a  stratagem. 

I  suggest  to  him  that  our  visitor  is  sure  to  be  interested  in  pict- 
ures, and  that  it  would  be  a  pretty  attention,  on  his  part,  to 
paint  her  a  landscape  to  hang  up  in  her  room.  Owen  brightens 
directly,  informs  me  in  his  softest  tones  that  he  is  then  at 
•work  on  the  Earthquake  at  Lisbon,  and  inquires  whether  I  think 
she  would  like  that  subject.  I  preserve  my  gravity  sufficiently 
to  answrer  in  the  affirmative,  and  my  brother  retires  meekly  to 
his  studio,  to  depict  the  engulfing  of  a  city  and  the  destruction 
of  a  population.  Morgan  withdraws  in  his  turn  to  the  top  of  the 
tower,  threatening,  when  our  guest  comes,  to  draw  all  his  meals 
up  to  his  new  residence  by  means  of  a  basket  and  string.  I  am 
left  alone  for  an  hour,  and  the  upholsterer  arrives  from  the  county 
town. 

This  worthy  man,  on  being  informed  of  our  emergency,  sees 
his  way,  apparently,  to  a  good  stroke  of  business,  and  thereupon 
wins  my  lasting  gratitude  by  taking,  in  opposition  to  every  one 
else,  a  bright  and  hopeful  view  of  existing  circumstances. 

"  You'll  excuse  me,  sir,"  he  says,  confidentially,  when  I  show 
trim  the  rooms  in  the  lean-to,  "  but  this  is  a  matter  of  experience, 


THE  V    OF  15 

family  man  m\self,  with  grown-up  datigi  my  own, 

an«l  tlif  >  '  well  knov.  Make 

idle  ami   you    make   Vm    1 

.Stable  at  »f  1'uniii 

nplaint  drop  from  their  lip-. 

ample,  sir—  you  pi; 

in  that  comer,  with  curlai:  Tillable 

(•hint/;  you  put  on  that  bedstead  \vliat  1  will  term  a   sul1i< •'. 

Idiiig:  and  you  top  up  with  a  sweet  little  eider-down  quilt, 
quilt,  as  light  as  roses,  and  similar  in  color.  You  do  that, 
and  what,  follows?  You  plea-.'  her  eye  wli.  lies  down  at 

night,  and  you  please  her  eye  when  \  up  in   the   morning 

all  right  so  far,  and  \  \vill  not  dwell, 

on  the  toilet-table,  nor  will  1  seek  to  detain  you   about  the 

•  w  her  figure,  and  the  other  ghss  to  show  lier  face. 
T  have  (lie  ariic!e>  in  stock,  and    will   be  myself  answerable  for 
ell'ect  on  the  lady's  mind  and  per 
!ed  the  way  into  the  next  room  as  he  spoke,  and  arrai 

and  decorations,  as  he  had  already  pla 
OIP.  with  the  strictest  r 

id  shown  him  to  exist  1  mfortable  furni- 

1  female  happin- 

Thus  far.  in  my  helpless  -tate  of  mind,   the  man's  con  fid- 
liad  impre-sed  me  in  spite  of  myself,  and  I  had  listened   to  him 
in  super  -ilence.     But  as  he  continued  to  rise,  by  regular 

rom  one  climax  of  upholstery  to  another,  warning 
bill  disclosed  themselves  in  the  remote  background 
of  th  of  luxury  and  magnificence  which  my  friend  was 

conjuring  up.     Certain    sharp  professional  instincts  of  by-gone 
iimed  their  influence  over  me:  I  began  to  start    doubts 
i   necessary  con-'equence,  the  inter- 
-i  us  soon  assumed  something  like  a  practical  I 
ertained  what  the  \  •  expense  of  furnishing 

nd   bavin--  discovered  that  the   process  of 
ning  the  le-iii-to  (allowing  for  the  time  reiiuired  to  ]»ro- 
cure  certain  articles  of  rarity  from  .Bristol)  would  occupy  nearly 
hK  I  dismissed  the  upholsterer  with  the  understanding 
that  1  -hould  take  a  day  or  two  for  consideration,  and   let  him 
know  the  result.     It  was  the  fifth  of  September,  and  our  <; 
of  Hearts  was  to  arrive  on  the  twentieth.     The  work,  then 

-Aim  on  the  seventh  or  eighth,  would  be  U-ULI  in 

In  making  all  -  dations  with  a  ce  to  tl 

tieth  1  re!ie<l  implicitly,  it  will  K  on  a 

young  lady's  punctuality  in  keepin  \liicli  she 

elf  made.      1  c;ui  only  account    for   such   extraordinary 

^implicit y  on  iny  part  on  the  supposition  that   i  had  be- 

d  by  lot  from  Whether  it 

r  not.  my  inno 

'ied  to  be  pract  i  -i  the 

.      Little   .ij,|    1 

li  of  the  mouth,  what  the  i 
of  the  month  had  in  store  for  rue. 


16  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

On  the  seventh  I  made  up  my  mind  to  have  the  bedroom  fur- 
nished at  once,  and  to  postpone  the  question  of  the  sitting-room 
for  a  few  days  longer.  Having  dispatched  the  necessary  order 
to  that  effect,  I  next  wrote  to  hire  the  piano  and  to  order  the 
box  of  novels.  This  done,  I  congratulated  myself  on  the  for- 
ward state  of  the  preparations,  and  sat  down  to  repose  in  the  at- 
mosphere of  my  own  happy  delusions. 

On  the  ninth  the  wagon  arrived  with  the  furniture,  and  the 
men  set  to  work  on  the  bedroom.  From  this  moment  Morgan 
retired  definitely  to  the  top  of  the  tower,  and  Owen  became  too 
nervous  to  lay  the  necessary  amount  of  paint  on  the  Earthquake 
at  Lisbon. 

On  the  tenth  the  work  was  proceeding  bravely.  Toward  noon 
Owen  and  I  strolled  to  the  door  to  enjoy  tbe  fine  autumn  sun- 
shine. We  were  sitting  lazily  on  our  favorite  bench  in  front  of 
the  tower  when  we  were  startled  by  a  shout  from  far  above  us. 
Looking  up  directly,  we  saw  Morgan  half  in  and  half  out  of  his 
narrow  window  in  the  seventh  story,  gesticulating  violently  with 
the  stem  of  his  long  meerschaum  pipe  in  the  direction  of  the 
road  below  us. 

We  gazed  eagerly  in  the  quarter  thus  indicated,  but  our  low 
position  prevented  us  for  some  time  from  seeing  anything.  At 
last  we  both  discerned  an  old  yellow  post-chaise  distinctly  and 
indisputably  approaching  us. 

Owen  and  I  looked  at  one  another  in  panic-stricken  silence.  It 
was  coming  to  us — and  what  did  it  contain  ?  Do  pianos  travel  in 
chaises  ?  Are  boxes  of  novels  conveyed  to  their  destination  by  a 
postilion?  We  expected  the  piano  and  expected  the  novels,  but 
nothing  else — unquestionably  nothing  else. 

The  chaise  took  the  turn  in  the  road,  passed  through  the 
less  gap  in  our  rough  inclosure-wall  of  loose  stone,  and  rapidly 
approached  us.     A  bonnet  appeared  at  the  window,  and  a  hand 
gayly  waved  a  white  handkerchief. 

Powers  of  caprice,  confusion,  and  dismay!  It  was  Jessie 
Yelverton  herself— arriving,  without  a  word  of  warning,  exactly 
ten  days  before  her  time. 

CHAPTER  III. 

THE  chaise  stopped  in  front  of  us,  and  before  we  had  recovered 
from  our  bewilderment  the  gardener  had  opened  the  door,  and 
let  down  the  steps. 

A  bright,  laughing  face,  prettily  framed  round  by  a  black  veil 
passed  over  the  head  and  tied  under  the  chin — a  traveling-di 
of  a  nankeen  color,  studded  with  blue  buttons,  and  trimmed  witli 
white  braid — a  light  brown  cloak  over  it — little  neatly-gloved 
hands,  which  seized  in  an  instant  on  one  of  mine  and  on  one  of 
Owen's — two  dark  blue  eyes,  which  seemed  to  look  us  both 
through  and  through  in  a  moment — a  clear,  full,  merrily  confi- 
dent voice — a  look  and  manner  gayly  and  gracefully  self-pos- 
sessed— such  were  the  characteristics  of  our  fair  guest  which 
first  struck  me  at  the  moment  when  she  left  the  post-chaise,  and 
possessed  herself  of  my  hand, 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  17 

"  Don't  begin  by  scolding  me,"  she  said,  before  I  could  utter 
a  word  of  welcome.  "  There  will  be  time  enough  for  that  in 
the  course  of  the  next  six  weeks.  I  beg  pardon,  with  all  pos- 
sible humility,  for  the  offense  of  coming  ten  days  before  my 
time.  Don't  ask  me  to  account  for  it,  please;  if  you  do,  I 
shall  be  obliged  to  confess  the  truth.  My  dear  sir,  the  fact  is, 
this  is  an  act  of  impulse." 

She  paused,  and  looked  us  both  in  the  face  with  a  bright 
confidence  in  her  own  flow  of  nonsense  that  was  perfectly 
irresistible. 

"  I  must  tell  you  all  about  it,"  she  ran  on,  leading  the  way  (o 
the  bench,  and  inviting  us,  by  a  little  mock  gesture  of  suppli  i- 
tion,  to  seat  ourselves  on  either  side  of  her.  "  I  feel  so  guilty 
till  I've  told  you.  Dear  me!  how  nice  this  is!  Here  I  am  quite 
at  home  already.  Isn't  it  odd  ?  Well,  and  how  do  you  think  it 
happened  ?  The  morning  before  yesterday,  Matilda — there  is 
Matilda,  picking  up  my  bonnet  from  the  bottom  of  that  re- 
markably musty  carriage — Matilda  came  and  woke  me  as  usual, 
and  I  hadn't  an  idea  in  my  head,  I  assure  you,  till  she  began  to 
brush  my  hair.  Can  you  account  for  it? — I  can't — but  she 
seemed,  somehow,  to  brush  a  sudden  fancy  for  coming  here  into 
my  head.  When  I  went  down  to  breakfast,  I  said  to  my  aunt, 
'  Darling,  I  have  an  irresistible  impulse  to  go  to  Wales  at  once, 
instead  of  waiting  till  the  twentieth.'  She  made  all  the  necessary 
objections,  poor  dear,  and  my  impulse  got  stronger  and  stronger 
with  every  one  of  them.  '  I'm  quite  certain,'  I  said, '  I  shall  never 
go  at  all  if  I  don't  go  now.'  '  In  that  case,'  says  my  aunt,  '  ring 
the  bell,  and  have  your  trunks  packed.  Your  whole  future  de- 
pends on  your  going;  and  you  terrify  me  so  inexpressibly  that  I 
shall  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  you.'  You  may  not  think  it,  to  look 
.at  her — but  Matilda  is  a  treasure;  and  in  three  hours  more  I  was 
on  the  Great  Western  Railway.  I  have  not  the  least  idea  how  I 
got  here — except  that  the  men  helped  me  everywhere.  They 
are  always  such  delightful  creatures!  I  have  been  casting  my- 
self, and  my  maid,  and  my  trunks  on  their  tender  mercies  at 
every  point  in  the  journey,  and  their  polite  attentions  exceed  all 
belief.  I  slept  at  your  horrid  little  county  town  last  night;  and 
the  night  before  I  missed  a  steamer  or  a  train,  I  forget  which, 
and  slept  at  Bristol;  and  that's  how  I  got  here.  And,  now  I  am 
here,  I  ought  to  give  my  guardian  a  kiss — oughtn't  I?  Shall  I 
call  you  papa?  I  think  I  will.  And  shall  I  call  you  uncle,  sir, 
and  give  you  a  kiss,  too  ?  We  shall  come  to  it  sooner  or  later — 
sha'n't  we? — and  we  may  as  well  begin  at  once,  I  suppose." 

Her  fresh  young  lips  touched  my  old  withered  cheek  first,  and 
then  Owen's;  a  soft,  momentary  shadow  of  tenderness,  that  was 
very  pretty  and  becoming,  passing  quickly  over  the  sunshine  and 
gayety  of  her  face  as  she  saluted  ns.  The  next  moment  she  was 
on  her  feet  again,  inquiring  "  who  the  wonderful  man  was  who 
built  the  Glen  Tower,"  and  wanting  to  go  all  over  it  immedi- 
ately from  top  to  bottom. 

As  we  took  her  into  the  house,  I  made  the  necessary  apologies 
for  the  miserable  condition  of  the  lean-to,  and  assured  her  that, 
ten  days  later,  she  would  have  found  it  perfectly  ready  to  recei; 


18  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

her.  She  whisked  into  the  rooms — looked  all  around  them— 
whisked  out  again — declared  she  had  come  to  live  in  the  old 
Tower,  and  not  in  any  modern  addition  to  it,  and  flatly  declined 
to  inhabit  the  lean-to  on  any  terms  whatever.  I  opened  my  lips 
to  state  certain  objections,  but  she  slipped  away  in  an  instant 
and  made  straight  for  the  Tower  staircase. 

"  Who  lives  here  ?"  she  asked,  calling  down  to  us,  eagerly,  from 
the  first-floor  landing. 

"I  do,"  said  Owen;  "but,  if  you  would  like  me  to  move 
out- 
She  was  away  up  the  second  flight  before  lie  could  say  any 
more.  The  next  sound  we  heard,  as  we  slowly  followed  her, 
was  a  preparatory  drumming  against  the  room  door  of  the  sec- 
ond story. 

"  Anybody  here  ?"  we  heard  her  ask  through  the  door. 
I  called  up  to  her  that,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  I  was 
there;  but  that,  like  Owen,  I  should  be  happy  to  move  out — 

My  polite  offer  was  cut  short  as  my  brother's  had  been.  We 
heard  more  drumming  on  the  door  of  the  third  story.  There 
were  two  rooms  here  also — one  perfectly  empty,  the  other  stocked 
with  odds  and  ends  of  dismal,  old-fashioned  furniture,  for  which 
we  had  no  use,  and  grimly  ornamented  by  a  life-size  basked 
figure  supporting  a  complete  suit  of  armor  in  a  sadly  rusty  con- 
dition. When  Owen  and  I  got  to  the  third-floor  landing,  the 
door  was  open;  Miss  Jessie  had  taken  possession  of  the  rooms; 
and  we  found  her  on  a  chair,  dusting  the  man  in  armor  with 
her  cambric  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  I  shall  live  here,"  she  said,  looking  round  at  us  briskly  over 
her  shoulder. 

We  both  remonstrated,  but  it  was  quite  in  vain.  She  told  us 
that  slit-  hail  an  impulse  to  live  with  the  man  in  armor,  and  that 
she  would  have  her  way,  or  go  back  immediately  in  the  post- 
chaise,  which  we  pleased.  Finding  it  impossible  to  move  her, 
we  bargained  that  she  should,  at  least,  allow  the  new  bed  and 
the  rest  of  the  comfortable  furniture  in  the  lean-to  to  be  mo 
up  into  the  empty  room  for  her  sleeping  accommodation.  She 
consented  to  this  condition,  protesting,  however,  to  the  last 
against  being  compelled  to  sleep  in  a  bed,  because  it  was  a 
modern  conventionality,  out  of  all  harmony  with  her  place  of 
residence  and  her  friend  in  armor. 

Fortunately  for  the  repose  of  Morgan,  who,  under  other  cir- 
cumstances, would  have  discovered  on  the  very  first  day  that 
his  airy  retreat  was  by  no  means  high  enough  to  place  him  out 
of  Jessie's  reach,  the  idea  of  settling  herself  instantly  in  her  new 
habitation  excluded  every  other  idea  from  the  mind  of  our  fair 
guest.  She  pinned  up  the  nankeen-colored  traveling  dress  in 
festoons  all  round  her  on  the  spot;  informed  us  that  we  were 
now  about  to  make  acquaintance  with  her  in  the  new  character 
of  a  woman  of  business;  and  darted  down-stairs  in  mad  high 
spirit,  screaming  for  Matilda  and  the  trunks  like  a  child  for  a  set 
of  new  toys.  The  wholesome  protest  of  Nature  against  the  arti 
ficial  restraints  of  modern  life  expressed  itself  in  all  that  she  said 
and  in  all  that  she  did.  She  had  never  known  what  it  was  to  be 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  10 

happy  before*  because  she  had  ne^ver  been  allowed,  until  now,  to 
do  anything  for  herself.  She  was  down  on  her  knees  at  one 
moment,  blowing  the  fire,  and  telling  us  that  she  felt  like  Cin- 
derella; she  was  up  on  a  table  the  next,  attacking  the  cobwebs 
with  a  long  broom,  and  wishing  she  had  been  born  a  housemaid. 
As  for  my  unfortunate  friend,  the  upholsterer,  he  was  leveled 
to  the  ranks  at  the  first  effort  he  made  to  assume  the  command 
of  the  domestic  forces  in  the  furniture  department.  She  laughed 
at  him,  pushed  him  about,  disputed  all  his  conclusions,  altered 
all  his  arrangements,  and  ended  by  ordering  half  his  bedroom 
furniture  to  be  taken  back  again,  for  the  one  unanswerable 
reason  that  she  meant  to  do  without  it. 

As  evening  approached,  the  scene  presented  by  the  two  rooms 
became  eccentric  to  a  pitch  of  absurdity  which  is  quite  indescrib- 
able. The  grim,  ancient  walls  of  the  bedroom  had  the  liveliest 
modern  dressing-gowns  and  morning-wrappers  hanging  all  about 
them.  The  man  in  armor  had  a  collection  of  smart  little  boots 
and  shoes  dangling  by  laces  and  ribbons  round  his  iron  legs.  A 
worm-eaten,  steel  clasped  casket,  dragged  out  of  a  corner, 
frowned  on  the  upholsterer's  bran-new  toilet-table,  and  held  a 
miscellaneous  assortment  of  combs,  hair-pins,  and  brushes. 
Here  stood  a  gloomy  antique  chair,  the  patriarch  of  its  tiibe, 
whose  arms  of  blackened  oak  embraced  a  pair  of  pert,  new  deal 
bonnet-boxes  not  a  fortnight  old.  There,  thrown  down  lightly 
on  a  rugged  tapestry  table-cover,  the  long  labor  of  centuries  past, 
lay  the  brief,  delicate  work  of  a  week  ago  in  the  shape  of  silk 
and  muslin  dresses  turned  inside  out.  In  the  midst  of  all  these 
confusions  and  contradictions,  Miss  Jessie  ranged  to  and  fro,  the 
active  center  of  the  whole  scene  of  disorder,  now  singing  at  the 
top  of  her  voice,  and  now  declaring  in  her  light-hearted  way 
that  one  of  us  must  make  up  his  mind  to  marry  her  immediately, 
as  she  was  determined  to  settle  for  the  rest  of  her  life  at  the  Glen 
Tower. 

She  followed  up  that  announcement,  when  we  met  at  dinner, 
by  inquiring  if  we  quite  understood  by  this  time  that  she  had  left 
her  "company  manners"  in  London,  and  that  she  meant  to 
govern  us  all  at  her  absolute  will  and  pleasure,  throughout  the 
whole  period  of  her  stay.  Having  thus  provided  at  the  outset 
for  the  due  recognition  of  her  authority  by  the  household  gener- 
ally and  individually — having  briskly  planned  out  all  her  own 
forthcoming  occupations  and  amusements  over  the  wine  and 
fruit  at  dessert,  and  having  positively  settled,  between  her  first 
and  second  cups  of  tea,  where  our  connection  with  them  was  to 
begin  and  where  it  was  to  end,  she  had  actually  succeeded, 
when  the  time  came  to  separate  for  the  night,  in  setting  us  as 
much  at  our  ease,  and  in  making  herself  as  completely  a  neces- 
sary part  of  our  household  as  if  she  had  lived  among  us  for  years 
and  years  past. 

Such  was  our  first  day's  experience  of  the  formidable  guest 
whose  anticipated  visit  had  so  sorely  and  so  absurdly  discom- 
posed us  all.  I  could  hardly  believe  that  I  had  actually  wasted 
hours  of  precious  time  in  worrying  myself  and  everybody  else 
in  the  house  about  the  best  means  of  laboriously  entertaining  q, 


£6  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

lively,  high-spirited  girl,  who  was  perfectly  capable,  without  an 
effort  on  her  own  part  or  on  ours,  of  entertaining  herself. 

Having  upset  every  one  of  our  calculations  on  the  first  day  of 
her  arrival,  she  next  falsified  all  our  predictions  before  she  had 
been  with  us  a  week.  Instead  of  fracturing  her  skull  with  the 
pony,  as  Morgan  had  prophesied,  she  sat  the  sturdy,  sure-footed, 
mischievous  little  brute,  as  if  she  were  part  and  parcel  of  him- 
self. With  an  old  waterproof  cloak  of  mine  on  her  shoulders, 
with  a  broad-flapped  Spanish  hat  of  Owen's  on  her  head,  with  a 
wild  imp  of  a  Welsh  boy  following  her  as  guide  and  groom  on 
a  bare-backed  pony,  and  with  one  of  the  largest  and  ugliest  cur- 
dogs  in  England  (which  she  had  picked  up,  lost  and  starved  by 
the  wayside)  barking  at  her  heels,  she  scoured  the  country  in  all 
directions,  and  came  back  to  dinner,  as  she  herself  expressed  it, 
"  with  the  manners  of  an  Amazon,  the  complexion  of  a  dairy- 
maid, and  the  appetite  of  a  wolf." 

On  days  when  incessant  rain  kept  her  in-doors,  she  amused 
herself  with  a  new  freak.  Making  friends  everywhere,  as  be- 
came the  Queen  of  Hearts,  she  even  ingratiated  herself  with  the 
sour  old  housekeeper,  who  had  predicted  so  obstinately  that  she 
was  certain  to  run  away.  To  the  amazement  of  everybody  in 
the  house,  she  spent  hours  in  the  kitchen,  learning  to  make  pud- 
dings and  pies,  and  trying  all  sorts  of  receipts  with  very  varying 
success,  from  an  antiquated  cookery-book  which  she  bad  dis- 
covered at  the  back  of  my  book- shelves.  At  other  times,  when 
I  expected  her'  to  be  up-stairs,  languidly  examining  her  finery, 
and  idly  polishing  her  trinkets,  I  beard  of  her  in  the  stables 
feeding'the  rabbits,  and  talking  to  the  raven,  or  found  her  in 
the  conservatory,  fumigating  the  plants,  and  half  suffocating 
the  gardener,  who  was  trying  to  moderate  her  enthusiasm  in  the 
production  of  smoke. 

Instead  of  finding  amusement,  as  we  had  expected,  in  Owen's 
studio,  she  puckered  up  her  pretty  face  in  grimaces  of  disgust 
at  the  smell  of  paint  in  the  room,  and  declared  that  the  horrors 
of  the  Earthquake  at  Lisbon  made  her  feel  hysterical.  Instead 
of  showing  a  total  want  of  interest  in  my  business  occupations 
on  the  estate,  she  destroyed  my  dignity  as  steward  by  joining 
me  in  my  rounds  on  her  pony,  with  her  vagabond  retinue  at  her 
heels.  Instead  of  devouring  the  novels  I  had  ordered  for  her, 
she  left  them  in  the  box,  and  put  her  feet  on  it  when  she  felt 
sleepy  after  a  hard  day's  riding.  Instead  of  practicing  for  hours 
every  evening  at  the  piano,  which  I  had  hired  with  such  a  firm 
conviction  of  her  using  it,  she  showed  us  tricks  on  the  cards, 
taught  us  new  games,  initiated  us  into  the  mysteries  of  domi- 
noes, challenged  us  with  riddles,  and  even  attempted  to  stimu- 
late us  into  acting  charades  —  in  short,  tried  every  evening 
amusement  in  the  whole  category  except  the  amusement  of 
music.  Every  new  aspect  of  her  character  was  a  new  surprise 
to  us,  and  every  fresh  occupation  that  she  chose  was  a  fresh  con- 
tradiction of  our  previous  expectations.  The  value  of  experience 
as  a  guide  is  unquestionable  in  many  of  the  most  important  af- 
fairs of  life;  but,  speaking  for  myself  personally,  I  never  under- 
stood the  utter  futility  of  it,  where  a  woman  is*  concerned,  until 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  21 

I  was  brought  into  habits  of  daily  communication  with  our  fair 
guest. 

In  her  domestic  relations  with  ourselves  she  showed  that  ex- 
quisite nicety  of  discrimination  in  studying  our  characters,  hab- 
its, and  tastes  which  comes  by  instinct  with  women,  and  which 
even  the  longest  practice  rarely  teaches  in  similar  perfection  to 
men.  She  saw  at  a  glance  all  the  underlying  tenderness  and 
generosity  concealed  beneath  Owen's  external  shyness,  irresolu- 
tion, and  occasional  reserve;  and,  from  first  to  last,  even  in  her 
gayest  moments,  there  was  always  a  certain  quietly  implied 
consideration  —  an  easy,  graceful,  delicate  deference  —  in  her 
manner  toward  my  eldest  brother,  which  won  upon  me  and 
upon  him  every  hour  in  the  day. 

With  me  she  was  freer  in  her  talk,  quicker  in  her  actions, 
readier  and  bolder  in  all  the  thousand  little  familiarities  of  our 
daily  intercourse.  When  we  met  in  the  morning  she  always 
took  Owen's  hand,  and  waited  till  he  kissed  her  on  the  fore- 
head. In  my  case  she  put  both  her  hands  on  my  shoulders, 
raised  herself  on  tiptoe,  and  saluted  me  briskly  on  both  cheeks 
in  the  foreign  way.  She  never  differed  in  opinion  with  Owen 
without  propitiating  him  first  by  some  little  artful  compliment 
in  the  way  of  excuse.  She  argued  bpldy  with  me  on  every  sub- 
ject under  the  sun,  law  and  politics  included;  and  when  I 
got  the  better  of  her,  never  hesitated  to  stop  me  by  putting  her 
hand  on  my  lips,  or  by  dragging  me  out  into  the  garden  in  the 
middle  of  a  sentence. 

As  for  Morgan,  she  abandoned  all  restraint  in  his  case  on  the 
second  day  of  her  sojourn  among  us.  She  had  asked  after  him 
as  soon  as  she  was  settled  in  her  two  rooms  on  the  third  story; 
had  insisted  on  knowing  why  he  lived  at  the  top  of  the  tower, 
and  why  he  had  not  appeared  to  welcome  her  at  the  door;  had 
entrapped  us  into  all  sorts  of  damaging  admissions,  and  had 
thereupon  discovered  the  true  state  of  the  case  in  less  than  five 
minutes. 

From  that  time  my  unfortunate  second  brother  became  the 
victim  of  all  that  was  mischievous  and  reckless  in  her  disposi- 
tion. She  forced  him  down  stairs  by  a  series  of  maneuvers 
which  rendered  his  refuge  uninhabitable,  and  then  pretended  to 
fall  violently  in  love  with  him.  She  slipped  little  pink  three- 
cornered  notes  under  his  door,  entreating  him  to  make  appoint- 
ments with  her,  or  tenderly  inquiring  bow  he  would  like  to  see 
her  hair  dressed  ar  dinner  o*n  that  day.  She  followed  him  into 
the  garden,  sometimes  to  ask  for  the  privilege  of  smelling  his 
tobacco-smoke,  sometimes  to  beg  for  a  lock  of  his  hair,  or  a 
fragment  of  his  ragged  old  dressing-gown,  to  put  among  her 
keepsakes.  She  sighed  at  him  when  he  was  in  a  passion,  and 
put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  when  he  was  sulky.  In  short, 
she  tormented  Morgan,  whenever  she  could,  catch  him,  with 
such  ingenious  and  such  relentless  malice  that  he  actually 
threatened  to  go  back  to  London  and  prey  once  more,  in  the 
unscrupulous  character  of  a  doctor,  on  the  credulity  of  mankind. 

Thus  situated  in  her  relations  toward  ourselves,  and  thus  oc- 
cupied by  country  diversions  of  her  own  choosing,  I^ss  <l 


22  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

passed  her  time  at  the  Glen  Tower,  excepting  now  and  then  a 
dull  hour  in  the  long  evenings,  to  her  guardian's  satisfaction— 
and,  all  things  considered,  not  without  pleasure  to  herself.  Day 
followed  day  in  calm  and  smooth  succession,  and  five  quiet 
weeks  had  elapsed  out  of  the  six  during  which  her  stay  was  to 
last  without  any  remarkable  occurrence  to  distinguish  them, 
when  an  event  happened  which  personally  affected  me  in  a  very 
serious  manner,  and  which  suddenly  caused  our  handsome  Queen 
of  Hearts  to  become  the  object  of  my  deepest  anxiety  in  the 
present,  and  of  my  dearest  hopes  for  the  future. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AT  the  end  of  the  fifth  week  of  our  guest's  stay,  among  the 
letters  which  the  morning's  post  brought  to  the  Glen  Tower 
there  was  one  for  me  from  my  son  George,  in  the  Crimea. 

The  effect  which  this  letter  produced  in  our  little  circle  ren- 
ders it  necessary  that  I  should  present  it  here,  to  speak  for  itself. 

This  is  what  I  read  alone  in  my  room: 

"  MY  DEAREST  FATHER, — After  the  great  public  news  of  the 
fall  of  Sebastopol,  have  you  any  ears  left  for  small  items  of  pri- 
vate intelligence  from  insignificant  subaltern  officers  ?  Prepare, 
if  you  have,  for  a  sudden  and  startling  announcement.  How 
shall  I  write  the  words  ?  How  shall  I  tell  you  that  I  am  really 
coming  home! 

"  I  have  a  private  opportunity  of  sending  this  letter,  and  only 
a  short  time  to  write  it  in;  so  I  must  put  many  things,  if  I  can, 
into  few  words.  The  doctor  has  reported  me  fit  to  travel  at  last, 
and  I  leave,  thanks  to  the  privilege  of  a  wounded  man,  by  the 
next  ship.  The  name  of  the  vessel  and  the  time  of  starting  are 
on  the  list  which  I  inclose.  I  have  made  all  my  calculations, 
and,  allowing  for  every  possible  delay,  I  find  that  I  shall  be  with 
you,  at  the  latest,  on  the  first  of  November — perhaps  some  days 
earlier. 

"  I  am  far  too  full  of  my  return,  and  of  something  else  con- 
nected with  it  which  is  equally  dear  to  me,  to  say  anything 
about  public  affairs,  more  especially  as  I  know  that  the  news- 
papers must,  by  this  time,  have  given  you  plenty  of  informa- 
tion. Let  me  fill  the  rest  of  this  paper  with  a  subject  which  is 
very  near  to  my  heart — nearer,  I  am  almost  ashamed  to  say,  than 
the  great  triumph  of  my  countrymen,  in  which  my  disabled 
condition  prevented  me  taking  any  share. 

"  I  gathered  from  your  last  letter  that  Miss  Yelverton  was  to 
pay  you  a  visit  this  autumn,  in  your  capacity  of  her  guardian. 
If  she  is  already  with  you,  pray  move  Heaven  and  earth  to  keep 
her  at  the  Glen  Tower  till  I  come  back.  Do  you  anticipate  my 
confession  from  this  entreaty?  My  dear,  dear  father,  all  my 
hopes  rest  on  that  one  darling  treasure  which  you  are  guarding 
perhaps,  at  this  moment,  under  your  own  roof — all  my  happiness 
depends  on  making  Jessie  Yelverton  my  wife. 

44  If  1  did  not  sincerely  believe  that  you  will  heartily  approve 
Of  my  choice,  I  should  hardly  have  ventured  on  this  abrupt  con- 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  V3 

fession.     Now  that  I  have  made  it,  let  me  go  on  and  tell  you 
vhy  I  have  kept  my  attachment  up  to  this  tin  ret  from 

•~very  one — even  from  Jessie  herself.    (You  see  I  call  her  by  her 
Christian  name  already!) 

"  I  should  have  risked  everything,  father,  and  have  laid  my 
whole  heart  open  before  her  more  than  a  year  ago,  hut  for  the 
order  which  sent  our  regiment  out  to  take  its  share  in  this  great 
struggle  of  the  Russian  war.  No  ordinary  change  in  my  life 
would  have  silenced  me  on  the  subject  of  all  others  of  which  I 
was  most  anxious  to  speak;  but  this  change  made  me  think 
seriously  of  the  future;  and  out  of  those  thoughts  came  the  reso- 
lution which  I  have  kept  until  this  time.  For  her  sake,  and  for 
her  sake  only,  I  constrained  myself  to  leave  the  words  unspoken 
which  might  have  made  her  my  promised  wife.  I  resolved  to 
spare  her  the  dreadful  suspense  of  waiting  for  her  betrothed  hus- 
band till  the  perils  of  war  might,  or  might  not,  give  him  back  to 
her.  I  resolved  to  save  her  from  the  bitter  grief  of  my  death  if 
a  bullet  laid  me  low.  I  resolved  to  preserve  her  from  the 
wretched  sacrifice  of  herself  if  I  came  back,  as  many  a  brave 
man  will  come  back  from  this  war,  invalided  for  life.  Leaving 
her  untrammeled  by  any  engagement,  unsuspicious  perhaps  of 
my  real  feelings  toward  her,  I  might  die,  and  know  that,  by 
keeping  silence,  I  had  spared  a  pang  to  the  heart  that  was  dear- 
est to  me.  This  was  the  thought  that  stayed  the  words  on  my 
lips  when  I  left  England,  uncertain  whether  I  should  ever  come 
back.  If  I  had  loved  her  less  dearly,  if  her  happiness  had  been 
less  precious  to  me,  I  might  have  given  way  under  the  hard  re- 
straint I  imposed  on  myself,  and  might  have  spoken  selfishly  at 
the  last  moment. 

"And  now  the  time  of  trial  is  past;  the  war  is  over;  and, 
although  I  still  walk  a  little  lame,  T  am,  thank  God,  in  as  good 
health  and  in  much  better  spirits  than  when  I  left  home.  Oh, 
father,  if  I  should  lose  her  now — if  I  should  get  no  reward  for 
sparing  her  but  the  bitterest  of  all  disappointments!  Sometimes 
I  am  vain  enough  to  think  that  I  made  some  little  impression  on 
her;  sometimes  I  doubt  if  she  has  a  suspicion  of  my  love.  She 
lives  in  a  gay  world — she  is  the  center  of  perpetual  admiration- 
men  with  all  the  qualities  to  win  a  woman's  heart  are  perpet- 
ually about  her — can  I,  dare  I  hope?  Yes,  I  must!  Only  kn-p 
her,  I  entreat  you,  at  the  Glen  Tower.  In  that  quiet  world, 
in  that  freedom  from  frivolities  and  temptations,  she  will  1 
to  me  as  she  might  listen  nowhere  else.  Keep  her,  my  dearest, 
kindest  father — and,  above  all  things,  breathe  not  a  word  to  her 
of  this  letter.  I  have  surely  earned  the  privilege  of  being  the 
first  to  open  her  eyes  to  the  truth.  She  must  know  nothing, 
now  that  I  am  coming  home,  till  she  knows  all  from  my  o\vu 
lips." 

Here  the  writing  hurriedly  broke  off.  I  am  only  giving  my- 
self credit  for  common  feeling,  I  trust,  when  I  confess  that  what 
I  read  deeply  affected  me.  I  think  I  never  felt  so  fond  of  my 
boy,  or  so  proud  of  him,  as  at  the  moment  when  I  laid  down  his 
letter. 


24  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

As  soon  as  I  could  control  my  spirits,  I  began  to  calculate  the 
question  of  time  with  a  trembling  eagerness,  which  brought  back 
to  my  mind  my  own  young  days  of  love  and  hope.  My  son  was 
to  come  back,  at  the  latest,  on  the  first  of  November,  and  Jessie's 
allotted  six  weeks  would  expire  on  the  twenty-second  of  October. 
Ten  days  too  soon!  But  for  the  caprice  which  had  brought  her 
to  us  exactly  that  number  of  days  before  her  time,  she  would 
have  been  in  the  house,  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  on  George's 
return. 

I  searched  back  in  my  memory  for  a  conversation  that  I  had 
held  with  her  a  week  since  on  her  future  plans.  Toward  the 
middle  of  November,  her  aunt,  Lady  Westwick,  had  arranged 
to  go  to  her  house  in  Paris,  and  Jessie  was,  of  course,  to  accom- 
pany her — to  accompany  her  into  that  very  circle  of  the  best 
English  and  the  best  French  society  which  contained  in  it  the 
elements  most  adverse  to  George's  hopes.  Between  this  time 
and  that  she  had  no  special  engagement,  and  she  had  only  set- 
tled to  write  and  warn  her  aunt  of  hei  return  to  London  a  day 
or  two  before  she  left  the  Glen  Tower. 

Under  these  circumstances,  the  first,  the  all-important  neces- 
sity was  to  prevail  on  her  to  prolong  her  stay  beyond  the  allotted 
six  weeks  by  ten  days.  After  the  caution  to  be  silent  impressed 
on  me  (and  most  naturally,  poor  boy)  in  George's  letter,  I  felt 
that  I  could  only  appeal  to  her  on  the  ordinary  ground  of  hospi- 
tality. Would  this  be  sufficient  to  effect  the  object  ? 

I  was  sure  that  the  hours  of  the  morning  and  the  afternoon 
had,  thus  far,  been  fully  and  happily  occupied  by  her  various 
amusements  in-doors  and  out.  She  was  no  more  weary  of  her 
days*  now  than  she  had  been  when  she  first  came  among  us.  But 
I  was  by  no  means  so  certain  that  she  was  not  tired  of  her  even- 
ings. I  had  latterly  noticed  symptoms  of  weariness  after  the 
lamps  were  lit,  and  a  suspicious  regularity  in  retiring  to  bed  the 
moment  the  clock  struck  ten.  If  I  could  provide  her  with  a  new 
amusement  for  the  long  evenings,  I  might  leave  the  days  to  take 
care  of  themselves,  and  might  then  make  sure  (seeing  that  she 
had  no  special  engagement  in  London  until  the  middle  of  No- 
vember) of  her  being  sincerely  thankful  and  ready  to  prolong  her 
stay. 

How  was  this  to  be  done  ?  The  piano  and  the  novels  had  both 
failed  to  attract  her.  What  other  amusement  was  there  to 
offer? 

It  was  useless,  at  present,  to  ask  myself  such  questions  as 
these.  I  was  too  much  agitated  to  think  collectedly  on  the  most 
trifling  subjects.  I  was  even  too  restless  to  stay  in  my  own 
room.  My  son's  letter  had  given  me  so  fresh  an  interest  in 
Jessie,  that  I  was  now  as  impatient  to  see  her  as  if  we  were 
about  to  meet  for  the  first,  time.  I  wanted  to  look  at  her  with 
my  new  eyes,  to  listen  to  her  with  my  new  ears,  to  study  her 
secretly  with  my  new  purposes,  and  my  new  hopes  and  fears. 
To  my  dismay  (for  I  wanted  the  very  weather  itself  to  favor 
George's  interests),  it  was  raining  heavily  that  morning.  1 
knew,  therefore,  that  I  should  probably  find  her  in  her  own  sit- 
ting-room, When  I  knocked  at  her  door,  with  George's  lettei 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  S5 

crumpled  up  in  my  hand,  with  George's  hopes  in  full  possession 
of  my  heart,  it  is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  my  nerves  were 
almost  as  much  fluttered,  and  my  ideas  almost  as  much  con- 
fused, as  they  were  on  a  certain  memorable  day  in  the  far  past, 
when  I  rose,  in  brand-new  wig  and  gown,  to  set  my  future  pros- 
pects at  the  Bar  on  the  hazard  of  my  first  speech. 

When  I  entered  the  room  I  found  Jessie  leaning  back  lan- 
guidly in  her  largest  arm-chair,  watching  the  rain-drops  drip- 
ping down  the  window-pane.  The  unfortunate  box  of  novels 
was  open  by  her  side,  and  the  books  were  lying,  for  the  most 
part,  strewed  about  on  the  ground  at  her  feet.  One  volume  lay 
open,  back  upward,  on  her  lap,  and  her  hands  were  crossed 
over  it  listlessly.  To  my  great  dismay,  she  was  yawning — 
palpably  and  widely  yawning — when  I  came  in. 

No  sooner  did  I  find  myself  in  her  presence  than  an  irresistible 
anxiety  to  make  some  secret  discovery  of  the  real  state  of  her 
feelings  toward  George  took  possession  of  me.  After  the  cus- 
tomary condolences  on  the  imprisonment  to  which  she  was  sub- 
jected by  the  weather,  I  said,  in  as  careless  a  manner  as  it  was 
possible  to  assume, 

"  I  have  heard  from  my  son  this  morning.  He  talks  of  being 
ordered  home,  and  tells  me  I  may  expect  to  see  him  before  the 
end  of  the  year." 

I  was  too  cautious  to  mention  the  exact  date  of  his  return,  for 
in  that  case  she  might  have  detected  my  motive  for  asking  her 
to  prolong  her  visit. 

"Oh,  indeed?"  she  said.  "How  very  nice.  How  glad  you 
must  be!" 

I  watched  her  narrowly.  The  clear,  dark  blue  eyes  met  mine 
as  openly  as  ever.  The  smooth,  round  cheeks  kept  their  fresh 
color  quite  unchanged.  The  full,  good-humored,  smiling  lips 
never  trembled  or  altered  their  expression  in  the  slightest  degree. 
Her  light  checked  silk  dress,  with  its  pretty  trimming  of  cherry- 
colored  ribbon,  lay  quite  still  over  the  bosom  beneath  it.  For 
all  the  information  I  could  get  from  her  look  and  manner,  we 
might  as  well  have  been  a  hundred  miles  apart  from  each  other. 
Is  the  best  woman  in  the  world  little  better  than  a  fathomless 
abyss  of  duplicity  on  certain  occasions,  and  where  certain  feelings 
of  her  own  are  concerned?  I  would  rather  not  think  that;  and 
yet  I  don't  know  how  to  account  otherwise  for  the  masterly  man- 
ner in  which  Miss  Jessie  contrived  to  baffle  me. 

I  was  afraid — literally  afraid  to  broach  the  subject  of  prolong- 
ing her  sojourn  with  us  on  a  rainy  day,  so  I  changed  the  topic,  in 
despair,  to  the  novels  that  were  scattered  about  her. 

"Can you  find  nothing  there,"  I  asked,  "to  amuse  you  this 
wet  morning?" 

"There  are  two  or  three  good  novels,"  she  said,  carelessly, 
"  but  I  read  them  before  1  left  London." 

"  And  the  others  won't  even  do  for  a  dull  day  in  the  country?" 
I  went  on. 

'They  might  do  for  some  people,"  she  answered,  "but  not 
for  tne.  I'm  rather  peculiar,  perhaps,  in  my  tastes.  I'm  sick  to 
death  of  novels  with  an  earnest  purpose.  I'm  sick  to  death  of 


£6  THE 'QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

outbursts  of  eloquence,  and  large-minded  philanthropy,  and 
graphic  descriptions,  and  unsparing  anatomy  of  the  human 
heart,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  Good  gracious  me!  isn't  it  the 
original  intention  or  purpose,  or  whatever  you  call  it,  of  a  worl^ 
of  fiction,  to  set  out  distinctly  by  telling  a  story?  And  how- 
many  of  these  books,  I  should  like  to  know,  do  that?  Why,  so 
far  as  telling  a  story  is  concerned,  the  greater  part  of  them, 
might  as  well  be  sermons  as  novels.  Oh,  dear  me!  what  I 
\  want  is  something  that  seizes  hold  of  my  interest,  and  makes  me 
i  forget  when  it  is  time  to  dress  for  dinner — something  that  keeps 
'  me  reading,  reading,  reading,  in  a  breathless  state,  to  find  out 
the  end.  You  know  what  I  mean — at  least  you  ought.  Why, 
there  was  that  little  chance  story  you  told  me  yesterday  in  the 
garden — don't  you  remember? — about  your  strange  client,  whom 
you  never  saw  again;  I  declare  it  was  much  more  interesting 
than  half  these  novels,  because  it  was  a  story.  Tell  me  another 
about  your  young  days,  when  you  were  seeing  the  world,  and 
meeting  with  all  sorts  of  remarkable  people.  Or,  no — don't  tell 
it  now — keep  it  till  the  evening,  when  we  all  want  something 
to  stir  us  up.  You  old  people  might  amuse  us  young  ones  out  of 
your  own  resources  of tener  than  you  do.  It  was  very  kind  of 
you  to  get  me  these  books,  but  with  all  respect  to  them,  I  would 
rather  have  the  rummaging  of  your  memory  than  the  rummag- 
ing of  this  box.  What's  the  matter  ?  Are  you  afraid  I  have 
found  out  the  window  in  your  bosom  already  ?" 

I  had  risen  from  my  chair  at  her  last  words,  and  I  felt  that 
my  face  must  have  flushed  at  the  same  moment.  She  had 
started  an  idea  in  my  mind — the  very  idea  of  which  I  had  been 
in  search  when  I  was  pondering  over  the  best  means  of  amusing 
her  in  the  long  autumn  evenings. 

I  parried  her  questions  by  the  best  excuses  I  could  offer;  changed 
the  conversation  for  the  next  five  minutes,  and  then,  making  a 
sudden  remembrance  of  business  my  apology  for  leaving  her, 
hastily  withdrew  to  devote  myself  to  the  new  idea  in  the  solitude 
of  my  owrn  room. 

A  little  quiet  thinking  convinced  me  that  I  had  discovered  a 
means  not  only  of  occupying  her  idle  time,  but  of  decoying  her 
into  staying  on  with  us,  evening  by  evening,  until  my  son's  re- 
turn. The  new  project  which  she  had  herself  unconsciously 
suggested  involved  nothing  less  than  acting  forthwith  on  her 
own  chance  hint,  and  appealing  to  her  interest  and  curiosity  by 
the  recital  of  incidents  and  adventures  drawn  from  my  own  per- 
sonal experience,  and  (if  I  could  get  them  to  help  me)  from  the 
experience  of  my  brothers  as  well.  Strange  people  and  startling 
events  had  connected  themselves  with  Owen's  past  life  as  a 
clergyman,  with  Morgan's  past  life  as  a  doctor,  and  with  my  past 
life  as  lawyer,  which  offered  elements  of  interest  of  a  strong  and 
striking  kind  ready  to  our  hands.  If  these  narratives  were 
written  plainly  and  unpretendingly;  if  one  of  them  was  read 
every  evening,  under  circumstances  that  should  pique  the  curi- 
osity and  impress  the  imagination  of  our  young  guest,  the  very 
occupation  was  found  for  her  weary  hours  which  would  gratify 
her  tastes,  appeal  to  her  natural  interest  in  the  early  lives  of  my 


THE    QUEEN    OF  T9.  27 

brothers  and  myself,  and  lure  her  insensibly  into  prolonging  her 
lays  without  exciting  a  suspicion  01  iotive 

for  detaining  her. 

I  sat  <!o\vn  at  my  desk;  I  hid  my  face  in  my  hands  to  keep  out 
all  impressions  of  external  and  present  things;  and  ] 
back  through  the  mysterious  labyrinth  of  the  Past,  through  the 
dim,  ever-deepening  twilight  of  the  years  that  were  gone. 

Slowly,  out  of  the  awful  shadows,  the  Ghosts  of  Memory  rose 
about  me.    The  dead  population  of  a  vanished  world  came 
to  life  round  me,  a  living  man.     Men  and  women  whose  earthly 

image  had  ended  long  since,  returned  upon  me  from  the  un- 
known spheres,  and  fond  familiar  voices  burst  their  way  back  to 

:irs  through  the  heavy  silence  of  the  grave.     Moving  by  me 
in  the  nameless  inner  light,  which  no  eyes  saw  but  mine,  the 
procession  of  immaterial  scenes  and  beings  unrolled  its 
silent  length.    I  saw  once  more  the  pleading  face  of  a  friend  of 
early  days,  with  the  haunting  vision  that   had   tortured  him 
through  life  by  his  side  again — with  the  long-forgotten  dc 
in  his  eyes  which  had  once  touched  my  heart,  and  bound  i 
him,  till  I  had  tracked  his  destiny  through  its  darkest  windings 

«i  end.  I  saw  the  figure  of  an  innocent  woman  passing  to 
and  fro  in  an  ancient  country  house,  with  the  shadow  of  a 
strange  suspicion  stealing  after  her  wherever  she  went.  I  saw 
a  man  worn  by  hardship  and  old  age,  stretched  dreaming  on  the 
straw  of  a  stable,  and  muttering  in  his  dream  the  terrible  se- 
crets of  his  life.  Other  scenes  and  persons  followed  these,  less 
vivid  in  their  revival,  but  still  always  recognizable  and  distinct; 

mg  girl  alone  bjf  night,  and  in  peril  of  her  life,  in  a  cottage 
on  a  dreary  moor — an  upper  chamber  of  an  inn,  with  two  beds 
in  it;  the  curtains  of  one  bed  closed,  and  a  man  standing  by 
them,  waiting,  yet  dreading  to  draw  them  back — a  husband  se- 

v  following  the  first  traces  of  a  mystery  which  his  wife's 
anxious  love  had  fatally  hidden  from  him  since  the  day  when 
they  first  met;  these,  and  other  visions  like  them,  shadowy  re- 

ons  of  the  living  beings  and  the  real  events  that  had 
once,  peopled  the  solitude  and  the  emptiness  around  me.     They 
haunted  me  still  when  I  tried  to  break  the  chain  of  thought 

li  my  own  efforts  had  wound  about  my  mind;  they  foil 
me  to  and  fro  in  the  room;  and  they  came  out  with  me  when  I 
left  it.     I  had  lifted  the  veil  from  the  Past  for  myself,  and  1  was 
now  to  rest  no  more  till  I  had  lifted  it  for  others. 

I  went  at  once  to  my  eldest  brother  and  showed  him 

•Id  him  all  that  I  have  written  1  is  kind  heart 

mine  had  been.     He  felt    for  my  suspense;    he 
shared  my  anxiety,  belaid  aside  his  own  occupation  on 

'nly   tell   me,"  he  said,  ••  ho\v   I  can   help,  and  I  will 
every  hour  in  the  day  to  you  and  t<>  ' 

I  had  come  to  him  with   my   mind   ah  full  of  his 

life  as  of  my  own;  I  recalled  to  his  memory 

rience  as  a  working  clergyman  in   London  king 

amo;  liieh  he  had  preserved  for  half  his  life! 

the  \  e  of   which   he   had   ('<••  long  sincr;   1    re- 

d  to  him  the 


28  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

ministered  in  his  sacred  office,  and  whose  stories  he  had  heard 
from  their  own  lips,  or  received  under  their  own  handwriting. 
When  we  parted  he  was  certain  of  what  he  was  wanted  to  do, 
and  was  resolute  on  that  very  day  to  begin  the  work. 

I  went  to  Morgan  next,  and  appealed  to  him  as  I  had  already 
appealed  to  Owen.  It  was  only  part  of  his  old  character  to  start 
all  sorts  of  eccentric  objections  in  reply  to  affect  a  cynical  in- 
difference, which  he  was  far  from  really  and  truly  feeling;  and 
to  indulge  in  plenty  of  quaint  sarcasm  on  the  subject  of  Jessie 
and  bis  nephew  George.  I  waited  till  these  little  surf  ace- ebulli- 
tions had  all  expended  themselves,  and  then  pressed  my  point 
again  with  the  earnestness  and  anxiety  that  I  really  felt. 

Evidently  touched  by  the  manner  of  my  appeal  to  him,  even 
more  than  by  the  language  in  which  it  was  expressed,  Morgan 
took  refuge  in  his  customary  abruptness,  spread  out  his  paper 
violently  on  the  table,  seized  his  pen  and  ink,  and  told  me  quite 
fiercely  to  give  him  his  work  and  let  him  tackle  it  at  once. 

I  set  myself  to  recall  to  his  memory  some  very  remarkable  ex- 
periences of  his  own  in  his  professional  days,  but  he  stopped  me 
before  I  had  half  done. 

"  I  understand,"  he  said,  taking  a  savage  dip  at  the  ink,  "  I'm 
to  make  her  flesh  creep,  and  to  frighten  her  out  of  her  wits.  I'll 
doit  with  a  vengeance!" 

Reserving  to  myself  privately  an  editorial  right  of  supervision 
over  Morgan's  contributions,  I  returned  to  my  own  room  to  be- 
gin my  share — by  far  the  largest  one — of  the  task  before  us. 
The  stimulus  applied  to  my  mind  by  my  son's  letter  must  have 
been  a  strong  one  indeed,  for  I  had  hardly  been  more  than  an 
hour  at  my  desk  before  I  found  the  old  literary  facility  of  my 
youthful  days,  when  I  was  a  writer  for  the  magazines,  returning 
to  me  as  if  by  magic.  I  worked  on  unremittingly  till  dinner- 
time, and  then  resumed  the  pen  after  we  had  all  separated  for 
the  night.  At  two  o'clock  the  next  morning  I  found  myself— 
God  help  me! — masquerading,  as  it  were,  in  my  own  long-lost 
character  of  a  hard- writing  young  man,  with  the  old  familiar 
cup  of  strong  tea  by  my  side,  and  the  old  familiar  wet  towel  tied 
round  my  head. 

My  review  of  the  progress  I  had  made,  when  I  looked  back  at 
my  pages  of  manuscript,  yielded  all  the  encouragement  I  wanted 
to  drive  me  on.  It  is  only  just,  however,  to  add  to  the  record  of 
this  first  day's  attempt,  that  the  literary  labor  which  it  involved 
was  by  no  means  of  the  most  trying  kind.  The  great  strain  on 
the  intellect — the  strain  of  invention — was  spared  me  by  my  hav- 
ing real  characters  and  events  ready  to  my  hand.  If  I  had  been 
called  on  to  create,  I  should,  in  all  probability,  have  suffered 
severely  by  contrast  with  the  very  worst  of  those  unfortunate 
novelists  whom  Jessie  had  so  rashly  and  so  thoughtlessly  con- 
demned. It  is  not  wonderful  that  the  public  should  rarely  know 
how  to  estimate  the  vast  service  which  is  done  to  them  by  the 
production  of  a  good  book,  seeing  that  they  are,  for  the  most 
part,  utterly  ignorant  of  the  immense  difficulty  of  writing  even 
a  bad  one. 

The  next  day  was  fine,  to  my  great  relief  j  and  our  visitor, 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  29 

while  we  were  at  work,  enjoyed  her  customary  scamper  on  the 
pony,  and  her  customary  rambles  afterward  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  house.  Although  I  had  interruptions  to  contend  with  on 
the  part  of  Owen  and  Morgan,  neither  of  whom  possessed  my 
'erience  in  the  production  of  what  heavy  people  cull  "light 
literature/'  and  both  of  whom  consequently  wanted  assistance, 
still  I  made  great  progress,  and  earned  my  hours  of  repose  on  the 

ling  of  the  second  day. 

On  that  evening  I  risked  the  worst,  and  opened  my  negotiations 
for  the  future  with  the  "Queen  of  Hearts." 

About  an  hour  after  the  tea  had  been  removed,  and   when  I 
happened  to  be  left  alone  in  the  room  with  her,  I  noticed  that  she 
rose  suddenly  and   went  to  the   writing-table.     My  suspicions , 
were  aroused  directly,  and  I  entered  on  the  dangerous  subject  by 
inquiring  if  she  intended  to  write  to  her  aunt. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "  I  promised  to  write  when  the  last  week 
came.  If  you  had  paid  me  the  compliment  of  asking  me  to  stay 
a  little  longer,  I  should  have  returned  it  by  telling  you  I  was 
sorry  to  go.  As  it  is.  I  mean  to  be  sulky  and  say  nothing." 

With  those  words  she  took  up  her  pen  to  begin  the  letter. 

"  Wait  a  minute."  I  remonstrated.  "I  was  just  on  the  point 
of  begging  you  to  stay  when  I  spoke." 

"  Were  you  indeed  ?"  she  returned.  "  I  never  believed  in  co- 
incidences of  that  sort  before,  but  now,  of  course,  I  put  the 
most  unlimited  faith  in  them." 

"  Will  you  believe  in  plain  proofs?"  I  asked,  adopting  her  hu- 
mor. "  How  doJyou  think  I  and  my  brothers  have  been  employ- 
ing our&elves  alTto-day  and  all  day  yesterday?  Guess  what  we 
have  been  about?" 

"Congratulating  yourselves  in  secret  on  my  approaching  de- 
parture," she  answered,  tapping  her  chin  saucily  with  the  feath- 
er-end of  her  pen. 

I  seized  the  opportunity  of  astonishing  her,  and  forthwith  told 
her  the  truth.  She  started  up  from  the  table,  and  approached 
me  with  the  eagerness  of  a  child,  her  eyes  sparkling  and  her 
cheeks  flushed. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it?"  she  said. 

I  assured  her  that  I  was  in  earnest.  She  thereupon  not  only 
expressed  an  interest  in  our  undertaking,  which  was  evidently 
sincere,  but,  with  characteristic  impatience,  wanted  to  begin 
the  first  evening's  reading  on  that  very  night.  I  disappointed 
her  sadly  by  explaining  that  we  required  time  to  prepare  our- 
selves, and  by  assuring  her  that  we  should  not  be  ready  for  the 
next  five  days.  On  the  sixth  day,  I  added,  we  should  be  able  to 
begin,  and  to  go  on,  without  missing  an  evening,  for  probably 
days  more. 

"The  next  five  days?"  she  repeated.  "Why,  that  will  just 
bring  us  to  the  end  of  my  six  weeks'  visit.  I  suppose  you  are 
not  setting  a  trap  to  catch  me?  Tin's  is  not  a  trick  of  you  three 
eiiniiin^  old  gentlemen  to  make  me  stay  on,  is  it?'' 

I  quailed  inwardly  as  that  dangerously  close  guess  at  the  truth 
ed  her  lips. 

-  fou  forget,"  I  said,  "  that  the  idea  only  occurred  to  me 


30  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

after  what  you  said  yesterday.  If  it  had  struck  me  earlier,  we 
should  have  been  ready  earlier,  and  then  where  would  your  sus- 
picions have  been  ?" 

11 1  am  ashamed  of  having  felt  them,"  she  said,  in  her  frank, 
hearty  way.  "  I  retract  the  word  '  trap,'  and  I  beg  pardon  for 
calling  you  'three  cunning  old  gentlemen.'  But  what  am  I  to 
say  to  my  aunt?" 

She  moved  back  to  the  writing-table  as  she  spoke. 

''Say  nothing,"  I  replied,  "  till  you  have  heard  the  first  story. 
Shut  up  the  paper-case  till  that  time,  and  then  decide  when  you 
will  open  it  again  to  write  to  your  aunt." 

She  hesitated  and  smiled.  That  terribly  close  guess  of  hers 
was  not  out  of  her  mind  yet. 

"I  rather  fancy,"  she  said,  slyly,  "  that  the  first  story  will 
turn  out  to  be  the  best  of  the  whole  series." 

"  Wrong  again,"  I  retorted.  "  I  have  a  plan  for  letting  chance 
decide  which  of  the  stories  the  first  one  shall  be.  They  shall  be 
all  numbered  as  they  are  done;  corresponding  numbers  shall  be 
written  inside  folded  pieces  of  card  and  well  mixed  together; 
you  shall  pick  out  any  one  card  you  like;  you  shall  declare  the 
number  written  within;  and,  good  or  bad,  the  story  that  an- 
swers to  that  number  shall  be  the  story  that  is  read.  Is  that 
fair?" 

"Fair!"  she  exclaimed;  "it's  better  than  fair;  it  makes  me  of 
some  importance;  and  I  must  be  more  or  less  than  woman  not 
to  appreciate  that." 

"  Then  you  consent  to  wait  patiently  for  the  next  five  days?" 

"  As  patiently  as  I  can." 

"And  you  engage  to  decide  nothing  about  writing  to  your 
aunt  until  you  have  heard  the  first  story?" 

"  I  do,"  sh<j  said,  returning  to  the  writing-table.  "  Behold  the 
proof  of  it."  She  raised  her  hand  with  theatrical  solemnity, 
and  closed  the  paper  case  with  an  impressive  bang. 

I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  with  my  mind  at  ease  for  the  first 
time  since  the  receipt  of  my  son's  letter. 

"  Only  let  George  return  by  the  first  of  November,"  I  thought 
to  myself,  "  and  all  the  aunts  in  Christendom  shall  not  prevent 
Jessie  Yelverton  from  being  here  to  meet  him." 


THE  TEN  DAYS. 

THE  FIRST  DAY. 

SHOWERY  and  unsettled.  In  spite  of  the  weather,  Jessie  put 
on  my  Mackintosh  cloak  and  rode  off  over  the  hills  to  one  of 
Owen's  outlying  farms.  She  was  already  too  impatient  to  wait 
quietly  for  the  evening's  reading  in  the  house,  or  to  enjoy  any 
amusement  less  exhilarating  than  a  gallop  in  the  open  air. 

I  was,  on  my  side,  as  anxious  and  as  uneasy  as  our  guest. 
Now  that  the  six  weeks  of  her  stay  had  expired — now  that 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  31 

lay  had  ivilly  arrived,  on  the  evening  of  which  the  first  story 

;td,  I  began  to  calculate  the  chances  of  failure  as 

v.i-ll  i unices  or  success.     What  if  my  own  estimate  of 

the  ii  "f  the  stories  turned  out  to  be  a  false  one?    "What 

ic  unforeseen  accident  occurred  to  delay  my  son's  return 

beyond  t<-n  days? 

The  arrival  of  the  newspaper  had  already  become  an  event  of 
the  deepest  importance  to  me.  Unreasonable  as  it  was  to  ex- 
pect any  tidings  of  George  at  so  early  a  date,  I  began,  neverthe- 
less, on  this  first  of  our  days  of  suspense,  to  look  for  the  name 
of  his  ship  in  the  columns  of  telegraphic  news.  The  mere  me- 
chanical act  of  looking  was  some  relief  to  my  overstrained  feel- 
ings, although  I  might  have  known,  and  did  know,  that  the 
search,  for  the  present,  could  lead  to  no  satisfactory  result. 

Toward  noon  I  shut  myself  up  with  my  collection  of  manu- 
scripts to  revise  them  for  the  last  time.  Our  exertions  had  thus 
far  produced  but  six  of  the  necessary  ten  stories.  As  they  were 
only,  however,  to  be  read,  one  by  one,  on  six  successive  even- 
ings, and  as  we  could  therefore  count  on  plenty  of  leisure  in  the 
daytime,  I  was  in  no  fear  of  our  failing  to  finish  the  little 
series. 

Of  the  six  complete  stories  I  had  written  two,  and  had  found  a 
third  in  the  form  of  a  collection  of  letters  among  nay  papers. 
Morgan  had  only  written  one,  and  this  solitary  contribution  of 
his  had  given  me  more  trouble  than  both  my  own  put  together, 
in  consequence  of  the  perpetual  intrusion  of  my  brother's  eccen- 
tricities in  every  part  of  his  narrative.  The  process  of  removing 
these  quaint  turns  and  frisks  of  Morgan's  humor — which,  how- 
ever amusing  they  might  have  been  in  an  essay,  were  utterly  out 
of  place  in  a  story  appealing  to  suspended  interest  for  its  effect — 
certainly  tried  my  patience  and  my  critical  faculty  (such  as  it  is) 
more  severely  than  any  other  part  of  our  literary  enterprise  which 
had  fallen  to  my  share. 

Owen's  investigations  among  his  papers  had  supplied  us  with 
the  two  remaining  narratives.  One  was  contained  in  a  letter, 
and  the  other  in  the  form  of  a  diary,  and  both  had  been  received 
by  him  directly  from  the  writers.  Besides  these  contributions, 
he  had  undertaken  to  help  us  by  some  work  of  his  own,  and  had 
been  engaged  for  the  last  four  days  in  molding  certain  events 
which  had  happened  within  his  personal  knowledge  into  the 
form  of  a  story.  His  extreme  fastidiousness  as  a  writer  inter- 
fered, however,  so  seriously  with  his  progress  that  he  was  still 
sadly  behindhand,  and  was  likely,  though  less  heavily  burdened 
than  Morgan  or  myself,  to  be  the  last  to  complete  his  allotted 
task. 

Such  was  our  position,  and  such  the  resources  at  our  com- 
mand, when  the  first  of  the  Ten  Days  dawned  upon  us.  Shortly 
after  four  in  the  afternoon  I  completed  my  work  of  revision, 
numbered  the  manuscripts  from  one  to  six  exactly  as  they  hap- 
pened to  lie  under  my  hand,  and  inclosed  them  all  in  a  port-folio, 
covered  with  purple  morocco,  which  became  known  from  that 
time  by  the  imposing  title  of  the  Purple  Volume. 

Miss  Jessie  returned  from  her  expedition  just  as  I  was  tying 


32  THE    QUEEN   OF   HEARTS. 

the  strings  of  the  port-folio,  and  woman-like,  instantly  asked 
leave  to  peep  inside,  which  favor  I,  man-like,  positively  declined 
to  grant. 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  over  our  guest  retired  to  array  herself 
in  magnificent  evening  costume.  It  had  been  arranged  that 
the  readings  were  to  take  place  in  her  own  sitting-room;  and  she 
was  so  enthusiastically  desirous  to  do  honor  to  the  occasion,  that 
she  regretted  not  having  brought  with  her  from  London  the  dress 
ii)  which  she  had  been  presented  at  court  the  year  before,  and 
not  having  borrowed  certain  materials  for  additional  splendor 
which  she  briefly  described  as  "aunt's  diamonds." 

Toward  eight  o'clock  we  assembled  in  the  sitting-room,  and  a 
strangely  assorted  company  we  were.  At  the  head  of  the  table, 
radiant  in  silk  and  jewelry,  flowers  and  furbelows,  sat  the  Queen 
of  Hearts,  looking  so  handsome  and  so  happy  that  I  secretly 
congratulated  my  absent  son  on  the  excellent  taste  he  had  shown 
in  falling  in  love  with  her.  Round  this  bright  young  creature 
(Owen  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  and  Morgan  and  T  on  either 
side)  sat  her  three  wrinkled,  gray-headed,  dingily- attired  hosts, 
and  just  behind  her.  in  still  more  inappropriate  companionship, 
towered  the  spectral  figure  of  the  man  in  armor,  which  had  so 
unaccountably  attracted  her  on  her  arrival.  This  strange  scene 
was  lighted  up  by  candles  in  high  and  heavy  brass  sconces.  Be- 
fore Jessie  stood  a  mighty  china  punch-bowl  of  the  olden  time, 
containing  the  folded  pieces  of  card,  inside  which  were 
written  the  numbers  to  be  drawn,  and  before  Owen  reposed 
the  Purple  Volume  from  which  one  of  us  was  to  read.  The 
walls  of  the  room  were  hung  all  round  with  faded  tapestry;  the 
clumsy  furniture  was  black  with  age;  and,  in  spite  of  the  light 
from  the  sconces,  the  lofty  ceiling  was  almost  lost  in  gloom.  If 
Rembrandt  could  have  painted  our  background,  Reynolds  our 
guest,  and  Hogarth  ourselves,  the  picture  of  the  scene  would 
have  been  complete. 

When  the  old  clock  over  the  tower  gateway  had  chimed  eight, 
I  rose  to  inaugurate  the  proceedings  by  requesting  Jessie  to  take 
one  of  the  pieces  of  card  out  of  the  punch-bowl,  and  to  declare 
the  number. 

She  laughed:  then  suddenly  became  frightened  and  serious; 
then  looked  at  me,  and  said,  "It  was  dreadfully  like  business;" 
and  then  entreated  Morgan  not  to  stare  at  her,  or,  in  the  present 
state  of  her  nerves,  she  should  upset  the  punch-bowl.  At  last 
she  summoned  resolution  enough  to  take  out  one  of  the  pieces  of 
card  and  to  unfold  it. 

"  Declare  the  number,  my  dear,"  said  Owen. 

"  Number  Four,"  answered  Jessie,  making  a  magnificent 
courtesy,  and  beginning  to  look  like  herself  again. 

Owen  opened  the  Purple  Volume,  searched  through  the  manu- 
scripts, and  suddenly  changed  color.  The  cause  of  his  discom- 
posure was  soon  explained.  Malicious  fate  had  assigned  to  the 
most  diffident  individual  injthe  company  the  trying  responsibility 
of  leading  the  way.  Num  oer  Four  was  one  of  the  two  narratives 
which  Owen  had  found  among  his  own  papers. 

"I  am  almost  sorry,"  began  my  eldest  brother,  confusedly, 


THE    QVEEX    OF    HEARTS.  33 

"that  it  has  fallen  to  my  turn  to  ivad  lirst.  T  hardly  know 
which  1  If  or  my  .story." 

"Try    arid  fancy  you  a'n-   in   the   pulpi 
sarcastically.     *•  ( icntlemcn   of   your  cloth,  Owen,  seldom 
to  distrust    themselves  or  their  manuscripts  when  t  hey  --ct  into 
that  position.'' 

"The  fact  is,"  continued  Own.  mildly  impenetrable  to  his 
brother's  cynical  remark,  "that  the  little  thing  I  am  going  to 
try  and  read  is  hardly  a  story  at  all.  I  am  afraid  it  is  only  an 
anecdote.  I  became  possessed  of  the  letter  which  contains  my 
narrative  under  these  circumstances.  At  the  time  when  1  was 
a  clergyman  in  London,  my  church  was  attended  for  some 
months  by  a  lady  who  was  the  wife  of  a  large  farmer  in  the 
country.  She  had  been  obliged  to  come  to  town,  and  to  remain 
there  for  the  sake  of  one  of  her  children,  a  little  boy,  who  re- 
quired the  best  medical  advice." 

At  the  words  "  medical  advice"  Morgan  shook  his  head,  and 
growled  to  himself  contemptuously.  Owen  went  on: 

"  While  she  was  attending  in  this  way  to  one  child,  his  share 
in  her  love  was  unexpectedly  disputed  by  another,  who  came 
into  the  world  rather  before  his  time.  I  baptized  the  baby,  and 
was  asked  to  the  little  christening  party  afterward.  This  was 
my  first  introduction  to  the  lady,  and  I  was  very  favorably  im- 
pressed by  her;  not  so  much  on  account  of  her  personal  appear- 
ance, for  she  was  but  a  little  woman  and  had  no  pretensions  to 
beauty,  as  on  account  of  a  certain  simplicity,  and  hearty,  down- 
right kindness  in  her  manner,  as  well  as  of  an  excellent  frank- 
ness and  good  sense  in  her  conversation.  One  of  the  guests 
present,  who  saw  how  she  had  interested  me,  and  who  spoke 
of  her  in  the  highest  terms,  surprised  me  by  inquiring  if  I 
should  ever  have  supposed  that  quiet,  good-humored  little 
woman  to  be  capable  of  performing  an  act  of  courage  which 
would  have  tried  the  nerves  of  the  boldest  man  in  England?  I 
naturally  enough  begged  for  an  explanation;  but  my  neighbor 
at  the  table  only  smiled  and  said.  '  If  you  can  find  an  opportunity, 
ask  her  what  happened  at  the  Black  Cottage,  and  you  will  hear 
something  that  will  astonish  you.  I  acted  on  the  hint  as  soon  as 
I  had  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  privately.  The  lady 
answered  that  it  was  too  long  a  story  to  tell  then,  and  explai 
on  my  suggesting  that  she  should  relate  it  on  some  future  day, 
that  she  was  about  to  start  for  her  country  home  the  next  morn- 
ing. '  But,'  she  was  good  enough  to  add,  '  as  I  have  been  under 
great  obligations  to  you  for  many  Sunda 

interested  in  this  matter,  1  will  employ  my  lii-t  leisure  time 
after  my  return  in  telling  you  by  writing,  instead  of  by  word  of 
mouth,  what  really  happened  to  me  on  one  memorable  night  of 
my  life  in  the  Black  Cottage.' 

"  She  faithfully  performed  her  promise.  In  a  fortnight  after- 
ward I  received  from  her  the  narrative  which  I  am  now  about  to 
read." 


34  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 


BROTHER  OWEN'S  STORY  OF  THE  SIEGE  OF  THE  BLACK  COTTAGE. 

To  begin  at  the  beginning,  I  must  take  you  back  to  the  time 
after  my  mother's  death,  when  my  only  brother  had  gone  to  sea, 
when  my  sister  was  out  at  service,  and  when  I  lived  alone  with 
my  father  in  the  midst  of  a  moor  in  the  west  of  England. 

The  moor  was  covered  with  great  limestone  rocks,  and  inter- 
sected here  and  there  by  streamlets.  The  nearest  habitation  to 
oui-s  was  situated  about  a  mile  and  a  half  off,  where  a  strip  of 
the  fertile  land  stretched  out  into  the  waste  like  a  tongue.  Here 
the  out-buildings  of  the  great  Moor  Farm,  then  in  the  possession 
of  my  husband's  father,  began.  The  farm-lands  stretched  down 
gently  into  a  beautiful  rich  valley,  lying  nicely  sheltered  by  the 
high  platform  of  the  moor.  When  the  ground  began  to  rise 
again,  miles  and  miles  away,  it  led  up  to  a  country  house  called 
Holme  Manor,  belonging  to  a  gentleman  named  Knifton.  Mr. 
Knifton  had  lately  married  a  young  lady  whom  my  mother  had 
nursed,  and  whose  kindness  and  friendship  for  me,  her  foster- 
sister,  I  shall  remember  gratefully  to  the  last  day  of  my  life. 
These  and  other  slight  particulars  it  is  necessary  to  my  story 
that  I  should  tell  you,  and  it  is  also  necessary  that  you  should 
be  especially  careful  to  bear  them  well  in  mind. 

My  father  was  by  trade  a  stone-mason.  His  cottage  stood  a 
mile  and  a  half  from  the  nearest  habitation.  In  all  other  direc- 
tions we  were  four  or  five  times  that  distance  from  neighbors. 
Being  very  poor  people,  this  lonely  situation  had  one  great  at- 
traction for  us — we  lived  rent  free  oil  it.  In  addition  to  that  ad- 
vaiitage,  the  stones,  by  shaping  which  my  father  gained  his 
livelihood,  lay  all  about  him  at  his  very  door,  so  that  he  thought 
his  position,  solitary  as  it  was,  quite  an  enviable  one.  I  can 
hardly  say  that  I  agreed  with  him,  though  I  never  complained. 
I  was  very  fond  of  my  father,  and  managed  to  make  the  best  of 
my  loneliness  with  the  thought  of  being  useful  to  him.  Mrs. 
Knifton  wished  to  take  me  into  her  service  when  she  married, 
but  I  declined,  unwillingly  enough,  for  my  father's  sake.  If  I 
had  gone  away,  he  would  have  had  nobody  to  live  with  him; 
and  my  mother  made  me  promise  on  her  death-bed  that  he 
should  never  be  left  to  pine  away  alone  in  the  midst  of  the 
bleak  moor. 

Our  cottage,  small  as  it  was,  was  stoutly  and  snugly  built, 
with  stone  from  the  moor  as  a  matter  of  course.  The  walls  were 
lined  inside  and  fenced  outside  with  wood,  the  gift  of  Mr.  Knif- 
ton's  father  to  my  father.  This  double  covering  of  cracks  and 
crevices,  which  would  have  been  superfluous  in  a  sheltered  po- 
sition, was  absolutely  necessary,  in  our  exposed  situation,  to 
keep  out  the  cold  winds  which, excepting  just  the  summer  months 
swept  over  'us  continually  all  the  year  round.  The  outside 
boards,  covering  our  roughly  built  stone  walls,  my  father  pro- 
tected against  the  wet  with  pitch  and  tar.  This  gave  to  our  lit- 
tle abode  a  curiously  dark,  dingy  look",  especially  when  it  was 
seen  from  a  distance;  and  so  it  had  come  to  be  called  in  the 
neighborhood,  even  before  I  was  born,  the  Black  Cottage, 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  35 

I  have  now  related  the  preliminary  particulars  which  it  is  de- 
'e  that   you  should  know,  and  may  proceed  at  once  to  the 

11  ing  you  iny  story. 

One  cloudy  autumn  day,  when  I  was  rather  more  than  eighteen 

herdsman  walked  over  from  Moor  Farm  with  a  let- 

hich  had  been  left  there  for  my  father.     It  came  from  a 

builder  living  at  our  county  town,  half  a  day's  journey  off,  and 

it  invited  my  father  to  come  to  him  and  give  his  judgment 

>r  some  stone-work  on  a  very  large  scale. 

r's  expenses  for  loss  of  time  were  to  be  paid,  and  lie 

10  have  his  share  of   employment  afterward  in  preparing 

t  IK- stone.     Ho  was  only  too  glad,  therefore,  to  obey  the  direc- 

which  the  letter  contained,  and  to  prepare  at  once  for  his 

long  walk  to  the  county  town. 

Considering-the  time  at  which  he  received  the  letter,  and  the 
of  resting  before  he  attempted  to  return,  it  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  avoid  being  away  from  home  for  one  night,  at 
.     He  proposed  to  me,  in  case  I  disliked  being  left  alone  in 
the  Black  Cottage,  to  lock  the  door,  and  to  take  me  to  Moor 
Farm  to  sleep  with  any  one  of  the  milkmaids  who  would  give 
share  of  her  bed.     I  by  no  means  liked  the  notion  of  sleep- 
s 'itli  a  girl  whom  I  did  not  know,  and  I  saw  no  reason  to 
feel  afraid  of  being  left  alone  for  only  one  night;  so  I  declined. 
No  thieves  had  ever  come  near  us;  our  poverty  was  sufficient 
11  against  them;  and  of  other  dangers  there  were  none 
that  even  the  most  timid  person  could  apprehend.     Accordingly, 
I  got  my  father's  dinner,  laughing  at  the  notion  of  my  taking 
re  under  the  protection  of  a  milkmaid  at  Moor  Farm.     He 
started   for  his  walk  as  soon  as  he  had  done,  saying  he  should 
nd  be  back  by  dinner-time  the  next  day,  and  leaving  me  and 
my  cat  Polly  to  take  care  of  the  house. 

I  had  cleared  the  table  and  brightened  up  the  fire,  and  had  sat 
down  to  my  work  with  the  cat  dozing  at  my  feet,  when  I  heard 
the  trampling  of  horses,  and  running  to  the  door,  saw  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Knifton,  with  their  groom  behind  them,  riding  up  to  the 
Black  ( 'ottage.  It  was  part  of  the  young  lady's  kindm 

i  an  opportunity  of  coming  to  pay  me  a  friendly  vi.->it, 
and   her  husband  was  generally    willing  to  accompany  her  for 
Ice.     I  made  my   best  courtesy,    tht-r.-fi.n-.    with  a 
deal  of  pleasure,  but  with  no  particular  snrpri 
them.     They  dismounted  and  entered  the  cottage,  laughing 
talking  in  great  spirit^.      I  ><.<.n  h.-anl  that  tl  • 

tity  town  for  which  my  fat  her  was  bound,  and  ; 
••led  to  stay  with  some  friends  there  for  a  1  ml  to 

irn  home  on  horseback,  as  they  went  out. 

I  heard  this,  and  I  also  dis<-o\,  ivd  that  they  had  been  having 

an  argument,  in  jest,  about    money  matters,  as  tin  long 

Mis.  Knifton   had  accused    her   husband   of  iu- 

iiid  of  never  being  abl  with 

v  in  his  p.M-k.-t  without  spending  it  all,  if  1;  .uld. 

.    Mr.  Knitii'ii  had  laughin 
him--.lt'  !  >  ing  t  hat  all  hi- 


36  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

for  his  wife,  and  that,  if  he  spent  it  lavishly,  it  was  under  her 
sole  influence  and  superintendence. 

"We  are  going  to  Cliverton  now,"  he  said  to  Mrs.  Knifton, 
naming  the  county  town,  and  warming  himself  at  our  poor  fire 
just  as  pleasantly  as  if  he  had  been  standing  at  his  own  grand 
hearth.  "You  will  stop  to  admire  every  pretty  thing  in  every 
one  of  the  Cliverton  shop  windows;  I  shall  hand  you  the  purse, 
and  you  will  go  and  buy.  When  we  have  reached  home  again, 
and  you  have  had  time  to  grow  tired  of  your  purchases,  you  will 
clasp  your  hands  in  amazement,  and  declare  that  you  are  quite 
shocked  at  my  habits  of  inveterate  extravagance.  I  am  only  the 
banker  who  keeps  the  money;  you,  my  love,  are  the  spendthrift 
who  throws  it  all  away." 

"  Am  I,  sir?"  said  Mrs.  Knifton,  with  a  look  of  mock  indigna- 
tion. "We  will  see  if  I  am  to  be  misrepresented  in  this  way 
with  impunity.  Bessie,  my  dear"  (turning  to  me),  "you  shall 
judge  how  far  I  deserve  the  character  which  that  unscrupulous 
man  has  just  given  to  me.  Jam  the  spendthrift,  am  I?  And 
you  are  only  the  banker?  Very  well.  Banker,  give  me  my 
money  at  once,  if  you  please." 

Mr.  Knifton  laughed,  and  took  some  gold  and  silver  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket. 

"No,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Knifton,  "  you  may  want  what  you  have 
got  there  for  necessary  expenses.  Is  that  all  the  money  you 
have  about  you?  What  do  I  feel  here?"  and  she  tapped  her 
husband  on  the  chest,  just  over  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat. 

Mr.  Knifton  laughed  again,  and  produced  his  pocket-book. 
His  wife  snatched  it  out  of  his  hand,  opened  it,  and  drew  out 
some  bank  notes,  put  them  back  again  immediately,  and  closing 
the  pocket-book,  stepped  across  the  room  to  my  poor  mother's  lit- 
tle walnut-wood  bookcase,  the  only  bit  of  valuable  furniture  we 
had  in  the  house. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  there  ?"  asked  Mr.  Knifton,  follow- 
ing his  wife. 

Mrs.  Knifton  opened  the  glass  door  of  the  bookcase,  put  the 
pocket-book  in  a  vacant  place  on  one  of  the  lower  shelves,  closed 
and  locked  the  door  again,  and  gave  me  the  key. 

"You  called  me  a  spendthrift  just  now,"  she  said.  "There 
is  my  answer.  Not  one  farthing  of  that  money  shall  you  spend 
at  Cliverton  on  me.  Keep  the  key  in  your  pocket,  Bessie,  and 
whatever  Mr.  Knifton  may  say,  on  no  account  let  him  have  it 
until  we  call  again  on  our  way  back.  No,  sir,  I  won't  trust  you 
with  that  money  in  your  pocket  in  the  town  of  Cliverton.  I  will 
make  sure  of  your  taking  it  all  home  again,  by  leaving  it  here  in 
more  trustworthy  hands  than  yours  until  we  ride  back.  Bessie, 
my  dear,  what  do  you  say  to  that  as  a  lesson  in  economy,  in- 
flicted on  a  prudent  husband  by  a  spendthrift  wife  ?" 

She  took  Mr.  Knif ton's  arm  while  she  spoke,  and  ^drew  him 
away  to  the  door.  He  protested  and  made  some  resistance,  but 
she  easily  carried  her  point,  for  he  was  far  too  fond  of  her  to 
have  a  will  of  his  own  injmy  trifling  matter  between  them. 
Whatever  the  men  might  say,  Mr.  Knifton  was  a  model  hus- 
band in  the  estimation  of  all  the  women  who  knew  him. 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  37 

"  You  will  see  us  as  we  come  back,  Bessie.    Till  then  you  are 
our  hanker,  ami  tin- pocket-book  is  yours,"  en,  d    Mrs.  Knifton, 
gayly,  at    the   door.     Her    husband    lifted    her  into   the   saddle, 
mounted  himself,  and  away  they  both  galloped  over  the  mo 
wild  and  hapj>\  as  a  couple  of  children. 

Although  my  being  trusted  with  money  by  Mrs.  Knifton  was 
no  novelty  (in  her  maiden  days  she  always  employed  me  to  pay 
her  dressmaker's  bills),  I  did  not  feel  quite  easy  at  having  a 
pocket-book  full  of  bank-notes  left  by  her  in  my  charge.  I  had 
no  positive  apprehensions  about  the  safety  of  the  deposit  placed 
in  my  hands,  but  it  was  one  of  the  odd  points  in  my  character 
then  (and  I  think  it  is  still)  to  feel  an  unreasonably  strong  objec- 
tion to  charging  myself  with  money  responsibilities  of  any  kind, 
even  to  suit  the  convenience  of  my  dearest  friends.  As  soon  as 
I  was  left  alone,  the  very  sight  of  the  pocket-book  behind  the 
glass  door  of  the  bookcase  began  to  worry  me,  and  instead  of  re- 
turning to  my  work,  I  puzzled  my  brains  about  finding  a  place 
to  lock  it  up  in,  where  it  would  not  be  exposed  to  the  view  of 
any  chance  passers-by  who  might  stray  into  the  Black  Cottage. 

This  was  not  an  easy  matter  to  compass  in  a  poor  house  like 
ours,  where  we  had  nothing  valuable  to  put  under  lock  and  key. 
After  running  over  various  hiding-places  in  my  mind,  I  thought 
of  my  tea-caddy,  a  present  from  Mrs.  Knifton,  which  I  always 
kept  out  of  harm's  way  in  my  own  bedroom.  Most  unluckily — 
as  it  afterward  turned  out — instead  of  taking  the  pocket-book  to 
the  tea-caddy,  I  went  into  my  room  first  to  take  the  tea-caddy 
to  the  pocket-book.  I  only  acted  in  this  roundabout  way  from 
sheer  thoughtlessness,  and  severely  enough  I  was  punished  for 
it,  as  you  will  acknowledge  yourself  when  you  have  read  a  page 
or  two  more  of  my  story. 

I  was  just  getting  the  unlucky  tea-caddy  out  of  my  cup- 
board, when  I  heard  footsteps  in  the  passage,  and,  running  out 
immediately,  saw  two  men  walk  into  the  kitchen— the  room  in 
which  I  had  received  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Knifton.  I  inquired  what  they 
wanted  sharply  enough,  and  one  of  them  answered  immediately 
that  they  wanted  niy  father.  He  turned  toward  me,  of  course, 
as  he  spoke,  and  I  recognized  him  as  a  stone-mason,  going 
among  his  comrades  by  the  name  of  Shifty  Dick.  He  bore  a 
very  bad  character  for  everything  but  wrestling,  a  sport  for 
which  the  workingmen  of  our  parts  were  famous  all  through  the 
county.  Shifty  Dick  was  champion,  and  he  had  got  his  name 
from  some  tricks  in  wrestling,  for  which  he  was  celebr 
He  was  a  tall,  heavy  man,  with  a  lowering,  scarred  face,  and 
huge,  hairy  hands — the  last  visitor  in  the  whole  world  that  I 
should  have  been  glad  to  see  under  any  circumstances.  His 
companion  was  a  stranger,  whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of 
Jerry — a  quick,  dapper,  wicked-looking  man,  who  took  off  his 
cap  to  me  with  mock  politeness,  and  showed,  in  so  doing,  a 
bald  head,  with  some  very  ugly- looking  knobs  on  it.  I  dis- 
trusted him  worse  than  I  did  Shifty  Dick,  and  managed  i 
between  his  leering  eyes  and  the  bookcase,  as  I  told  the  t  w«>  that 
my  father  was  gone  out,  and  that  1  did  not  expect  him  back  till 
the  next  day. 


88  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  my  mouth  before  I  repented 
that  my  anxiety  to  get  rid  of  my  unwelcome  visitors  had  made 
me  incautious  enough  to  acknowledge  that  my  father  would  be 
away  from  home  for  the  whole  night. 

Shifty  Dick  and  his  companion  looked  at  each  other  when  I 
unwisely  let  out  the  truth,  but  made  no  remark  except  to  ask 
me  if  I  would  give  them  a  drop  of  cider.  I  answered  sharply 
that  I  had  no  cider  in  the  house,  having  no  fear  of  the  conse- 
quences of  refusing  them  drink,  because  1  knew  that  plenty  of 
men  were  at  work  within  hail,  in  a  neighboring  quarry.  The 
two  looked  at  each  other  again  when  I  denied  having  any  cider 
to  give  them,  and  Jerry  (as  I  am  obliged  to  call  him.  knowing  no 
other  name  by  which  to  distinguish  the  fellow)  took  off  his  cap 
to  me  once  more,  and  with  a  kind  of  blackguard  gentility  upon 
him,  said  they  would  have  the  pleasure  of  calling  the  next  day, 
when  my  father  was  at  home.  I  said  good-afternoon  as  ungra- 
ciously as  possible,  and,  to  my  great  relief,  they  both  left  the 
cottage  immediately  afterward. 

As  soon  as  they  were  well  away,  I  watched  them  from  the 
door.  They  trudged  off  in  the  direction  of  Moor  Farm;  and,  as 
it  was  beginning  to  get  dusk,  I  soon  lost  sight  of  them. 

Half  an  hour  afterward  I  looked  out  again. 

The  wind  had  lulled  with  the  sunset,  but  the  mist  was  rising, 
and  a  heavy  rain  was  beginning  to  fall.  Never  did  the  lonely 
prospect  of  the  moor  look  so  dreary  as  it  looked  to  my  eyes  that 
evening.  Never  did  I  regret  any  slight  thing  more  sincerely 
than  I  then  regretted  the  leaving  of  Mr.  Knifton's  pocket-book 
in  my  charge.  I  cannot  say  that  I  suffered  under  any  actual 
alarm,  for  I  felt  next  to  certain  that  neither  Shifty  Dick  nor 
Jerry  had  got  a  chance  of  setting  eyes  on  so  small  a  thing  as  the 
pocket-book  while  they  were  in  the  kitchen;  but  there  was  a 
kind  of  vague  distrust  troubling  me— a  suspicion  of  the  night — a 
dislike  of  being  left  by  myself,  which  I  never  remember  having 
experienced  before.  This  feeling  so  increased  after  I  had  closed 
the  door  and  gone  back  to  the  kitchen,  that  when  I  heard  the 
voices  of  the  quarrymen  as  they  passed  our  cottage  on  their  way 
home  to  the  village  in  the  valley  below  Moor  Farm,  I  stepped 
out  into  the  passage  with  a  momentary  notion  of  telling  them 
how  I  was  situated,  and  asking  them  for  advice  and  protection. 

I  had  hardly  formed  this  idea,  however,  before  I  dismissed  it. 
None  of  the  quarrymen  were  intimate  friends  of  mine.  I  had  a 
nodding  acquaintance  with  them,  and  believed  them  to  be  hon- 
est men,  as  times  went.  But  my  own  common  sense  told  me 
that  what  little  knowledge  of  their  characters  I  had  was  by  no 
means  sufficient  to  warrant  me  in  admitting  them  into  my  con- 
fidence in  the  matter  of  the  pocket-book.  I  had  seen  enough  of 
poverty  and  poor  men  to  know  what  a  terrible  temptation  a  large 
sum  of  money  is  to  those  whose  whole  lives  are  passed  in  scrap- 
ing up  sixpences  by  weary  hard  work.  It  is  one  thing  to  write 
fine  sentiments  in  books  about  incorruptible  honesty,  and  an- 
other thing  to  put  those  sentiments  in  practice,  when  one  day's 
work  is  all  that  a  man  has  to  set  up  in  the  way  of  an  obstacle 
fret  ween  starvation  and  his  own  fireside. 


'/'///«;    QUEEN    OF    UK  ARTS.  39 

The  only  resource  that  remained  was  to  carry  the  pocket-book 
\vith  nir  to  Moor  Farm,  and  ask  permission  to  pass  the  night 
there.  But  I  could  not  persuade  myself  that  there  was  any  real 
necessity  for  taking  such  a  course  as  this;  and,  if  the  truth  must 
be  told,  my  pride  revolted  at  the  idea  of  presenting  myself  in 
the  character  of  a  coward  before  the  people  at  the  farm.  Tim- 
idity is  thought  rather  a  graceful  attraction  among  ladies,  but 
among  poor  women  it  is  something  to  be  laughed  at.  A  woman 
with  less  spirit  of  her  own  than  I  had,  and  always  shall  have, 
would  have  considered  twice  in  my  situation  before  she 
made  up  her  mind  to  encounter  the  jokes  of  plowmen  and 
the  jeers  of  milkmaids.  As  for  me,  I  had  hardly  considered 
about  going  to  the  farm,  before  I  despised  myself  for  entertain- 
ing any  such  notion.  "No,  no,"  thought  I,  "I  am  not  the 
woman  to  walk  a  mile  and  a  half  through  rain,  and  mist,  and 
darkness,  to  tell  a  whole  kitchenful  of  people  that  I  am  afraid. 
Come  what  may,  here  I  stop  till  father  gets  back." 

Having  arrived  at  that  valiant  resolution,  the  first  thing  I  did 
was  to  lock  and  bolt  the  back  and  front  doors,  and  see  to  the 
security  of  every  shutter  in  the  house. 

That  duty  performed.  I  made  a  blazing  fire,  lighted  my  can- 
dle, and  sat  6x>wn  to  tea,  as  snug  and  comfortable  as  possible. 
I  could  hardly  believe  now,  with  the  light  in  the  room,  and  the 
sense  of  security  inspired  by  the  closed  doors  and  shutters,  that  I 
had  ever  felt  even  theslightest  apprehension  earlier  in  the  day.  I 
sang  as  I  washed  up  the  tea-things;  and  even  the  cat  seemed  to 
ratch  the  infection  of  my  good  spirits.  I  never  knew  the  pretty 
creature  so  playful  as  she  was  that  evening. 

The  tea-things  put  by,  I  took  up  my  knitting,  and  worked 
away  at  it  so  long  that  I  began  at  last  to  get  drowsy.  The  fire 
was  "so  bright  and  comforting  that  I  could  not  muster  resolution 
enough  to  leave  it  and  goto  bed.  1  sat  staring  lazily  into  the 
blaze,  with  my  knitting  on  my  lap— sat  till  the  splashing  of  the 
rain  outside,  and  the  fitful,  sullen  sobbing  of  the  wind  grew 
fainter  and  fainter  on  my  ear  The  last  sounds  I  heard  before  I 
fairly  dozed  off  to  sleep  were  the  cheerful  crackling  of  the  fire 
and  the  steady  purring  of  the  cat,  as  she  basked  luxuriously  in 
the  warm  light  on  the  hearth.  Those  were  the  last  sounds 
before  I  fell  asleep.  The  sound  that  woke  me  was  one  loud  bang 
at  the  door. 

I  started  up,  with  my  heart  (as  the  saying  is)  in  my  mouth, 
with  a  frightful  momentary  shuddering  at  the  roots  of  my  hair 
—I  started  up  breathless,  cold,  and  motionless,  waiting  in 
silence,  I  hardly  knew  for  what,  doubtful  at  first  whether  I  had 
dreamed  about  the  bang  at  the  door,  or  whether  the  blow  had 
really  been  struck  on  it. 

In  a  minute  or  less  there  came  a  second  bang,  louder  than  the 
first.  I  ran  out  into  the  p;i 

"  Who's  th< 

"Let  us  in,v  answered  a   voire,  which  I  recognized  imrne< I i 
ly  as  the  voice  of  Shifty  Dick. 

"Wait  a  bit,  my  de.-ir.  ;iml  let  m<  •  explain."  said  a  second  T. 
in  the  low,  oily,  jeering  tonesof  Dick's  companion— the  wickedly 


40  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

clever  little  man  whom  he  called  Jerry.  "  You  are  alone  in  the 
house,  my  pretty  little  dear.  You  may  crack  your  sweet  voice 
with  screeching,  and  there's  nobody  near  to  hear  you.  Listen 
to  reason,  my  love,  find  let  us  in.  We  don't  want  cider  this 
time — we  only  want  a  very  neat- looking  pocket-book  which  you 
happen  to  have,  and  your  late  excellent  mother's  four  silver  tea- 
spoons, which  you  keep  so  nice  and  clean  on  the  chimney-piece. 
If  you  let  us  in  we  won't  hurt  a  hair  of  your  head,  my  cherub, 
and  we  promise  to  go  away  the  moment  we  have  got  what  we 
want,  unless  you  particularly  wish  us  to  stop  to  tea.  If  you 
keep  us  out,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  break  into  the  house,  and 
then " 

"  And  then,"  burst  in  Shifty  Dick,  "  we'll  mash  you!" 

"Yes,"  said  Jerry,  "we'll  mash  you,  my  beauty.  But  you 
won't  drive  us  to  doing  that,  will  you  ?  You  will  let  us  in  ?'' 

This  long  parley  gave  me  time  to  recover  the  effect  which  the 
first  bang  at  the  door  had  produced  on  my  nerves.  The  threats 
of  the  two  villains  would  have  lerrified  some  women  out  of  their 
senses,  but  the  only  result  they  produced  on  me  was  violent  in- 
dignation. I  had,  thank  God,  a  strong  spirit  of  my  own,  and 
the  cool,  contemptuous  insolence  of  the  man  Jerry  effectually 
roused  it. 

"  You  cowardly  villains!"  I  screamed  at  them  through  the 
door.  "  You  think  you  can  frighten  me  because  lam  only  a 
poor  girl  left  alone  in  the  house.  You  ragamuffin  thieves,  I  defy 
you  both!  Our  bolts  are  strong,  our  shutters  are  thick.  I  am 
here  to  keep  my  father's  house  safe,  and  keep  it  I  will  against 
an  army  of  you!" 

"You  may  imagine  what  a  passion  I  was  in  wrhen  I  vapored  and 
blustered  in  that  way.  I  heard  Jerry  laugh,  and  Shifty  Dick 
swear  a  whole  mouthful  of  oaths.  Then  there  was  a  dead  silence 
for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then  the  two  ruffians  attacked  the 
door. 

I  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  seized  the  poker,  and  then  heap- 
ed wood  on  the  fire,  and  lighted  all  the  candles  I  could  find,  for 
I  felt  as  though  I  could  keep  up  my  courage  better  if  I  had 
plenty  of  light.  Strange  and  improbable  as  it  may  appear,  the 
next  thing  that  attracted  my  attention  was  my  poor  pussy, 
crouched  up,  panic-stricken,  in  a  corner.  I  was  so  fond  of  the 
little  creature  that  I  took  her  up  in  my  arms  and  carried  her  into 
my  bedroom,  and  put  her  inside  my  bed.  A  comical  tiling  to  do 
in  a  situation  of  deadly  peril,  was  it  not?  But  it  seemed  quite 
natural  and  proper  at  the  time. 

All  this  while  the  blows  were  falling  faster  and  faster  on  the 
door.  They  were  dealt,  as  I  conjectured,  with  heavy  stones 
picked  up  from  the  ground  outside.  Jerry  sang  at  his  wicked 
work,  and  Shifty  Dick  swore. 

As  I  left  the  bedroom  after  putting  the  cat  under  cover,  I 
heard  the  lower  panel  of  the  door  begin  to  crack. 

I  ran  into  the  kitchen  and  huddled  our  four  silver  spoons  into 
my  pocket;  then  took  the  unlucky  book  with  the  bank-notes 
and  put  it  in  the  bosom  of  my  dress.  I  was  determined  to  de- 
fend the  property  confided  to  my  care  with  my  life.  Just  as  I 

0 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  41 

had  secured  the  pocket-book  I  heard  the  door  splintering,  and 
rushed  into  the  passage  again  with  my  heavy  kitchen  poker  lift- 
ed in  both  hands. 

I  was  in  time  to  see  the  bald  head  of  Jerry,  with  the  ugly-look- 
ing knobs  on  it,  pushed  into  the  passage  through  a  great  rent  in 
one  of  the  lower  panels  of  the  door. 

"  Get  out,  you  villain,  or  I'll  brain  you  on  the  spot!"  I  screech- 
ed, threatening  him  with  the  poker. 

Mr.  Jerry  took  his  head  out  again  much  faster  than  he  put  it 
in. 

The  next  thing  that  came  through  the  rent  was  a  long  pitch- 
fork, which  they  darted  at  me  from  the  outside,  to  move  me 
from  the  door,  i  struck  at  it  with  all  my  might,  and  the  blow 
must  have  jarred  the  hand  of  Shifty  Dick  up  to  his  very 
shoulder,  for  I  heard  him  give  a  roar  of  rage  and  pain.  Before 
he  could  catch  at  the  fork  with  his  other  hand  I  had  drawn  it  in- 
side. 63  this  time  even  Jerry  lost  his  temper,  and  swore  more 
awfully  than  Dick  himself. 

Then  there  came  another  minute  of  respite.  I  suspected  they 
had  gone  to  get  bigger  stones,  and  I  dreaded  the  giving  way  of 
the  whole  door. 

Running  into  the  bedroom  as  this  fear  befell  me,  I  laid  hold  of 
my  chest  of  drawers,  dragged  it  into  the  passage,  and  threw  it 
against  the  door.  On  the  top  of  that  I  heaped  my  father's  big 
tool  chest,  three  chairs,  and  a  scuttleful  of  coals,  and  last,  1 
dragged  out  the  kitchen  table  and  rammed  it  as  hard  as  I  could 
against  the  whole  barricade.  They  heard  me  as  they  were 
coming  up  to  the  door  w7ith  fresh  stones.  Jerry  said,  "Stop  a 
bit!''  and  then  the  t  \vo  consulted  together  in  whispers.  I  listened 
eagerly,  and  just  caught  these  words: 

''  Let's  try  it  tie  other  way." 

Nothing  more  was  said,  but  I  heard  their  footsteps  retreating 
from  the  door. 

Were  they  going  to  besiege  the  back  door  now? 

I  h:»d  hardly  asked  myself  that  question  when  I  heard  their 
voices  at  the  other  side  of  the  house.  The  back  door  was  smaller 
than  the  front,  hut  it  had  this  advantage  in  th.>  way  ol  strength 
—it  was  made  of  two  solid  oak  hoards  joined  lengthwise,  and 
strengthened  inside  by  heavy  cross  pieces.  It  had  no  holts  like 
the  I'ront  door,  hut  was  fastened  by  a  liar  of  iron  running  a< 
it  in  a  slanting  direction,  and  fitting  at  either  end  into  the  wall. 

"They  must  have  the  whole  cottage  down  before  thc\ 
break  in  at  that  door!''  1  thought  to  nnself.  And  they 
found  out  as  much  Cor  themselves.  After  five  minutes  of  1> 

t  the  hack  door  they   ^ave   up  any    further  attack   in   that 
ion,  -ind  cast  their  heavy  stones  down  with  curses  of  fury 
awful  to  hear. 

I  went  into   the  kitchen   and  dropped  on    the  window-seat  to 
rest  for  a   moment.     Suspense  and  e\<  itement  together  \vn 
ginning  to  tell  Upon    me.     The    perspiration  broke   out    thick   on 
my  forehead,  and  1  In'^an  to  feel   the    l-i  had   inflicted  on 

my  hands  in  making  the  barricade  against  the  front  door.      I  had 
not  lost  a  particle  of  my  resolution,  but  1  was  beginnin 


42  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

strength.  There  was  a  bottle  of  rum  in  the  cupboard,  which  my 
brother,  the  sailor,  had  left  with  us  the  last  time  he  was  ashore. 
I  drank  a  drop  of  it.  Never  before  or  since  have  I  put  anything 
down  my  throat  that  did  me  half  so  much  good  as  that  precious 
mouthful  of  rum! 

I  was  still  sitting  in  the  window-seat  drying  my  face,  when  I 
suddenly  heard  their  voices  close  behind  me. 

They  were  feeling  the  outside  of  the  window  against  which  I 
was  sitting.  It  was  protected,  like  all  the  other  windows  in  the 
cottage,  by  iron  bars.  I  listened  in  dreadful  suspense  for  the 
sound  of  filing,  but  nothing  of  the  sort  was  audible.  They  had 
evidently  reckoned  on  frightening  me  easily  into  letting  them  in, 
and  had  come  unprovided  with  house- breaking -tools  of  any 
kind.  A  fresh  burst  of  oaths  informed  me  that  they  had  recog- 
nized the  obstacle  of  the  iron  bars.  I  listened  breathlessly  for 
some  warning  of  what  they  were  going  to  do  next,  but  their 
voices  seemed  to  die  away  in  the  distance.  They  were  retreat- 
ing from  the  window.  Were  they  also  retreating  from  the  house 
altogether  ?  Had  they  given  up  the  idea  of  effecting  an  entrance 
in  despair  ? 

A  long  silence  followed— a  silence  which  tried  my  courage 
even  more  severely  than  the  tumult  of  their  first  attack  on  the 
cottage. 

Dreadful  suspicions  now  l>eset  me  of  their  being  able  to  ac- 
complish by  treachery  what  they  had  failed  to  effect  by  force. 
Well  as  I  knew  the  cottage  I  began  to  doubt  whether  there 
might  not  be  ways  of  cunningly  and  silently  entering  it  against 
which  I  was  not  provided.  The  ticking  of  the  clock  annoyed 
me:  the  crackling  of  the  fire  startled  me.  I  looked  out  twenty 
times  in  a  minute  into  the  dark  corners  of  the  passage,  straining 
my  eyes,  holding  my  breath,  anticipating  the  most  unlikely 
events,  the  most  impossible  dangers.  Had  they  really  gone,  or 
were  they  still  prowling  about  the  house?  Oh,  what  a  sum  of 
money  I  would  have  given  only  to  have  known  what  they  were 
about  in  that  interval  of  silence! 

I  was  startled  at  last  out  of  my  suspense  in  the  most  awful 
manner.  A  shout  from  one  of  them  reached  my  ears  on  a  sud- 
den down  the  kitchen  chimney.  It  was  so  unexpected  and  so 
horrible  in  the  stillness  that  I  screamed  for  the  first  time  since 
the  attack  on  the  house.  My  worst  forebodings  had  never  sug- 
gested to  me  that  the  two  villains  might  mount  upon  the  roof. 

"  Let  us  in,  you  she  devil!"  roared  a  voice  down  the  chimney. 

There  was  another  pause.  The  smoke  from  the  wood  fire, 
thin  and  light  as  it  was  in  the  red  state  of  the  embers  at  that 
moment,  had  evidently  obliged  the  man  to  take  his  face  from 
the  mouth  of  the  chimney.  I  counted  the  seconds  while  he  was, 
as  I  conjectured,  getting  his  breath  again.  In  less  than  half  a 
minute  there  came  another  shout: 

"  Let  us  in.  or  we'll  burn  the  place  down  over  your  head." 

Burn  it?  Burn  what?  There  was  nothing  easily  combustible 
Imt  tlie  thatch  on  the  roof:  and  that  had  been  well  soaked  by  the 
heavy  rain  which  had  now  fallen  incessantly  for  more  than  six 
Burn  the  place  over  my  head  ?  How  ? 


TJfK    (JVEKX    OF  43 

While  I  was  still  casting  about  wildly  in  my  mind  to  discover 
what  possible  danger  there  could  be  of  fire,  one  of  the  heavy 
stones  placed  on  the  thatch  to  keep  it  from  being  torn  up  by 
high  winds  came  thundering  down  the  chimney.  It  scattered 
the  live  embers  on  the  hearth  all  over  the  room.  A  richly  fur- 
nished place,  with  knick-knacks  and  fine  muslin  about  it,  would 
have  been  set  on  fire  immediately.  Even  our  bare  floor  and 
rough  furniture  gave  out  a  smell  of  burning  at  the  first  shower 
of  embers  which  the  first  stone  scattered. 

For  an  instant  I  stood  quite  horror-struck  before  this  new  proof 
of  the  devilish  ingenuity  of  the  villains  outside.  But  the  dread- 
ful danger  I  was  now  in  recalled  me  to  my  senses  immediately. 
There  \vasa  large  canful  of  water  in  my  bedroom,  and  I  ran  in 
at  once  to  fetch  it.  Before  I  could  get  back  to  the  kitchen  a 
second  stone  had  been  thrown  down  the  chimney,  and  the  floor 
was  smoldering  in  several  places. 

I  had  wit  enough  to  let  the  smoldering  go  on  for  a  moment 
or  two  more,  to  pour  the  whole  of  my  canful  of  water  over  the 
fire  before  tbe  third  stone  came  down  the  chimney.  The  live 
embers  on  the  floor  I  easily  disposed  of  after  that.  The  man  on 
the  roof  must  have  heard  the  hissing  of  the  fire  as  I  put  it  out, 
and  have  felt  the  change  produced  in  the  air  at  the  mouth  of 
the  chimney,  for  after  the  third  stone  had  descended  no  more 
followed  it.  As  for  either  of  the  ruffians  themselves  dropping 
down  by  the  same  road  along  which  the  stones  had  come,  that 
was  not  to  be  dreaded.  The  chimney,  as  I  well  knew  by  our  ex- 
perience in  cleaning  it,  was  too  narrow  to  give  passage  to  any 
one  above  the  size  of  a  small  boy. 

I  looked  upward  as  that  comforting  reflection  crossed  ray 
mind — I  looked  up,  and  saw,  as  plainly  as  I  see  the  paper  I  am 
now  writing  on,  the  point  of  a  knife  coming  through  the  inside 
of  the  roof  just  over  my  head.  Our  cottage  had  no  upper  story, 
and  our  rooms  had  no  ceilings.  Slowly  and  wickedly  the  knife 
wriggled  its  way  through  the  dry  inside  thatch  between  the 
rafters.  It  stopped  for  awhile,  and  there  came  a  sound  of  tear- 
ing. That,  in  turn,  stopped  too;  there  was  a-  great  fall  of  dry 
thatch  on  the  floor;  and  I  saw  the  heavy,  hairy  hand  of  Shifty 
Dick,  armed  with  the  knife,  come  through  after  the  fallen  frag- 
ments. He  tapped  at  the  rafters  with  the  back  of  the  knife,  as 
if  to  test  their  strength.  Thank  God,  they  were  substantial  and 
close  together!  Nothing  lighter  than  a  hatchet  would  have 
sufficed  to  remove  any  part  of  them. 

The  murderous  hand  was  still  tapping  with  the  knife  when  I 
heard  a  shout  from  the  man  Jerry,  coming  from  the  neighbor- 
hood of  my  father's  stone-shed  in  the  back  yard.  The  hand 
and  knife  disappeared  instantly.  I  went  to  the  back  door  and 
put  my  ear  to  it,  and  listened. 

Both  men  were  now  in  the  shed.  I  made  the  most  desperate 
efforts  to  call  to  mind  what  tools  and  other  things  were  left  in 
it  which  might  be  used  against  me.  But  my  agitation  confused 
me.  1  could  remember  nothing  except  my  father's  big  stone- 
saw,  which  was  far  too  heavy  and  unwieldy  to  be  used  on  the 
roof  of  the  cottage,  I  was  still  puzzling  my  brains,  and  making 


44  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

my  head  swim  to  no  purpose,  when  I  heard  the  men  dragging 
something  out  of  the  shed.  At  the  same  instant  that  the  noise 
caught  my  ear,  the  remembrance  flashed  across  me  like  light- 
ning of  some  beams  of  wood  which  had  lain  in  the  shed  for 
years  past.  I  had  hardly  time  to  feel  certain  that  they  were 
removing  one  of  these  beams  before  I  heard  Shifty  Dick  say  to 
Jerry, 

"Which  door?" 

'•The  front,"  was  the  answer.  "  We've  cracked  it  already; 
we'll  have  it  down  now  in  no  time." 

Senses  less  sharpened  by  danger  than  mine  would  have  un- 
derstood but  too  easily,  from  these  words,  that  they  were  about 
to  use  the  beam  as  a  battering-ram  against  the  door.  When 
tnat  conviction  overcame  me,  I  lost  courage  at  last.  I  felt  that 
the  door  must  come  down.  No  such  barricade  as  I  had  con- 
Ftructed  could  support  it  for  more  than  a  few  minutes  against 
such  shocks  as  it  was  now  to  receive. 

"  I  can  do  no  more  to  keep  the  house  against  them,"  I  said  to 
myself,  with  my  knees  knocking  together,  and  the  tears  at  last 
beginning  to  wet  my  cheeks.  "I  must  trust  to  the  night  and 
the  thick  darkness,  and  save  my  life  by  running  for  it  while 
there  is  yet  time." 

I  huddled  on  my  cloak  and  hood,  and  had  my  hand  on  the 
bar  of  the  back  door,  when  a  piteous  mew  from  the  bedroom  re- 
minded me  of  the  existence  of  poor  Pussy.  I  ran  in,  and  hud- 
dled the  creature  up  in  my  apron.  Before  I  was  out  in  the  pas- 
gage  again,  the  tirst  shock  from  the  beam  fell  on  the  door. 

The  upper  hinge  gave  way.  The  chairs  and  the  coal-scuttle, 
forming  the  top  of  my  barricade,  were  hurled,  rattling,  on  to  the 
floor,  but  the  lower  hinge  of  the  door,  and  the  chest  of  drawers 
and  the  tool-chest  still  kept  their  places. 

"  One  more!"  I  heard  the  villains  cry — "one  more  run  with 
the  beam,  and  down  it  comes!" 

Just  as  they  must  have  been  starting  for  that  "  one  more  run," 
I  opened  the  back  door  and  fled  out  into  the  night,  with  the 
book  full  of  bank-notes  in  my  bosom,  the  silver  spoons  in  my 
pocket,  and  the  cat  in  my  arms.  I  threaded  my  way  easily- 
enough  through  the  familiar  obstacles  in  the  back  yard,  and  was 
out  in  the  pitch  darkness  of  the  moor  before  I  heard  the  second 
shock,  and  the  crash  which  told  me  that  the  whole  door  had 
given  way. 

In  a  few  minutes  they  must  have  discovered  the  fact  of  my 
flight  with  the  pocket-book,  for  I  heard  shouts  in  the  distance  as 
if  they  were  running  put  to  pursue  me.  I  kept  on  at  the  top  of 
my  speed,  and  the  noise  soon  died  away.  It  was  so  dark  that 
twenty  thieves  instead  of  two  would  have  found  it  useless  to 
follow  me. 

How  long  it  was  before  I  reached  the  farm-house — the  nearest 
place  to  which  I  could  fly  for  refuge — I  cannot  tell  you.  I  re- 
member that  I  had  just  sense  enough  to  keep  the  wind  at  my 
back  (having  observed  in  the  beginning  of  the  evening  that  it 
blew  toward  Moor  Farm),  and  to  go  on  resolutely  through  the 
darkness,  In  all  other  respects  I  was  by  this  time  half  crazed 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  45 

by  what  I  had  gone  through.  If  it  had  so  happened  that  the 
wind  had  rhanged  after  T  had  observed  its  direction  early  in  the 
•"ng.  I  should  have  gone  astray,  and  have  probably  perished 
of  fatigue  and  exposure  on  the  moor.  Providentially,  it  still 
blew  steadily  as  it  had  blown  for  hours  past,  and  I  reached  the 
farm-house  with  my  clothes  wet  through,  and  my  brain  in  a 
high  fever.  When  I  made  niy  alarm  at  the  door,  they  had  all 
gone  to  bed  but  the  farmer's  eldest  son,  who  was  sitting  up  late 
over  his  pipe  and  newspaper.  I  just  mustered  strength  enough 
to  gasp  out  a  few  words,  telling  him  what  was  the  matter,  and 
then  fell  down  at  his  feet,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  in  a  dead 
swoon. 

That  swoon  was  followed  by  a  severe  illness.  When  1  got 
strong  enough  to  look  about  me  again,  I  found  myself  in  one  of 
the  farm-house  beds — my  father,  Mrs.  Knifton,  and  the  doctor 
were  all  in  the  room — my  cat  was  asleep  at  my  feet,  and  the 
pocket-book  that  I  had  saved  lay  on  the  table  by  my  side. 

There  was  plenty  of  news  for  me  to  hear  as  soon  as  I  was  fit 
to  listen  to  it.  Shifty  Dick  and  the  other  rascal  had  been  caught, 
and  were  in  prison,  waiting  their  trial  at  the  next  assizes.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Knifton  had  been  so  shocked  at  the  danger  I  had  run— 
for  which  they  blamed  their  own  want  of  thoughtfulness  in 
leaving  the  pocket-book  in  my  care — that  they  had  insisted  on 
my  father's  removing  from  our  lonely  home  to  a  cottage  on  their 
land,  which  we  were  to  inhabit  rent  free.  The  bank-notes  that 
I  had  saved  were  given  to  me  to  buy  furniture  with,  in  place  of 
the  things  that  the  thieves  had  broken .  These  pleasant  tidings 
assisted  so  greatly  in  promoting  my  recovery,  that  I  was  soon 
able  to  relate  to  my  friends  at  the  farm-house  the  particulars 
that  I  have  written  here.  They  were  all  surprised  and  interested, 
but  no  one,  as  I  thought,  listened  to  me  with  such  breathless 
attention  as  the  farmer's  eldest  son.  Mrs.  Knifton  noticed  this, 
too,  and  began  to  make  jokes  about  it,  in  her  light-hearted  way, 
as  soon  as  we  were  alone.  I  thought  little  of  her  jesting  at  the 
time;  but  when  I  got  well,  and  we  we  at  to  live  at  our  new 
home,  k<the  young  farmer,"  as  he  was  called  in  our  parts,  con- 
stantly came  to  see  us,  and  constantly  managed  to  meet  me  out 
of  doors.  I  had  my  share  of  vanity,  like  other  young  women, 
and  I  began  to  think  of  Mrs.  Knifton's  jokes  with  some  atten- 
tion. To  be  brief,  the  young  farmer  managed  one  Sunday — I 
never  could  tell  how — to  lose  his  way  with  me  in  returning  from 
church,  and  before  we  found  out  the  right  road  home  again  he 
had  asked  me  to  be  his  wife. 

His  relations  did  all  they  could  to  keep  us  asunder  and  break 
off  the  match,  thinking  a  poor  stone-mason's  daughter  no  fit 
wife  for  a  prosperous  yeoman.  But  the  farmer  was  too  ob- 
stinate for  them.  He  had  one  form  of  answer  to  all  their 
objections.  "A  man,  if  he  is  worth  the  name,  marries  accord- 
ing to  his  own  notions,  and  to  please  himself,''  he  used  to  say. 
"  My  notion  is,  that  when  I  take  a  wife  I  am  placing  my 
character  and  my  happiness — the  most  precious  things  I  have  to 
trust — in  one  woman's  care.  Tin1  woman  I  mean  to  marry  had 
a  small  charge  confided  to  her  care,  and  showed  herself  worthy 


48  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

of  it  at  the  risk  of  her  life.  That  is  proof  enough  for  me  that 
she  is  worthy  of  the  greatest  charge  I  can  put  into  her  hands. 
Rank  and  riches  are  fine  things,  but  the  certainty  of  getting  a 
good  wife  is  something  better  still.  I'm  of  age,  I  know  my  own 
mind,  and  I  mean  to  marry  the  stone-mason's  daughter." 

And  he  did  marry  me.  Whether  I  proved  myself  worthy  or 
not  of  his  good  opinion  is  a  question  which  I  must  leave  you  to 
ask  my  husband.  All  that  I  had  to  relate  about  myself  and  my 
doings  is  now  told.  Whatever  interest  my  perilous  adventure 
may  excite,  ends,  I  am  well  aware,  with  my  escape  to  the  farm- 
house. I  have  only  ventured  on  writing  these  few  additional 
sentences  becaiise  my  marriage  is  the  moral  of  my  story.  It 
has  brought  me  the  choicest  blessings  of  happiness  and  prosper- 
ity, and  I  owe  them  all  to  my  night-adventure  in  The  Black 
Cottage. 


THE  SECOND  DAY. 

A  CLEAR,  cloudless,  bracing  autumn  morning.  I  rose  gayly, 
with  the  pleasant  conviction  on  my  mind  that  our  experiment 
had  thus  far  been  successful  beyond  our  hopes. 

Short  and  slight  as  the  first  story  had  been,  the  result  of  it  on 
Jessie's  mind  had  proved  conclusive.  Before  E  could  put  the 
question  to  her,  she  declared  of  her  own  accord ,  and  with  her 
customary  exaggeration,  that  she  had  definitely  abandoned  all 
idea  of  writing  to  her  aunt  until  our  collection  of  narratives  was 
exhausted. 

"  I  am  in  a  fever  of  curiosity  about  what  is  to  come,"  she 
said,  when  we  all  parted  for  the  night;  "and,  even  if  I  wanted 
to  leave  you,  I  could  not  possibly  go  away  now,  without  hearing 
the  stories  to  the  end." 

So  far,  so  good.  All  my  anxieties  from  this  time  were  for 
George's  return.  Again  to-day  I  searched  the  newspapers,  and 
again  there  were  no  tidings  of  the  ship. 

Miss  Jessie  occupied  the  second,  day  by  a  drive  to  our  county 
town  to  make  some  little  purchases.  Owen,  and  Morgan,  and  I 
were  all  hard  at  work,  during  her  absence,  on  the  stories  that 
still  remained  to  be  completed.  Owen  desponded  about  ever  get- 
ting done;  Morgan  grumbled  at  what  he  called  the  absurd  diffi- 
culty of  writing  nonsense.  I  worked  on  smoothly  and  content- 
edly, stimulated  by  the  success  of  the  first  night. 

We  assembled,  as  before,  in  our  guest's  sitting-room.  As 
the  clock  struck  eight  she  drew  out  the  second  card.  It  was 
Number  Two.  The  lot  had  fallen  on  me  to  read  next. 

"  Although  my  story  is  told  in  the  first  person,"  I  said,  address- 
ing Jessie,  "  you  must  not  suppose  that  the  events  related  in  this 
particular  case  happened  to  me.  They  happened  to  a  friend  of 
mine,  who  naturally  described  them  to  me  from  his  own  per- 
sonal point  of  view.  In  producing  my  narrative  from  the  rec- 
ollection of  what  he  told  me  some  years  since,  I  have  sup- 
posed myself  to  be  listening  to  him  again,  and  have  therefore 
written  in  his  character,  and,  whenever  my  memory  would  help 


THE    QUEEN    OF    IIEMiTR.  47 

me,  as  nearly  as  possible  in  his  language  also.     By  this  means  T 
I  have  succeeded  in  giving  an  air  of  reality  to  a  story  which 
ruth,  at  any  rate,  to  recommend  it.     I  must  ask  you  to  ex- 
cuse me  if  I  enter  into  no  details  in  offering  this  short  explana- 
tion.    Although  the  persons  concerned  in   my  narrative  have 
•d  to  exist,  it  is  necessary  to  observe  all  due  delicacy  toward 
their  memories.     Who  they  were,  and  how  I  became  acquaint- 
ed with  them  are   matters  of  no  moment.     The  interest  of  the 
Ftory,  such  as  it  is,  stands  in   no  need,  in  this  instance,  of  any 

lance  from  personal  explanations." 

With  those  words  I  addressed  myself  to  iny  task,  and  read  as 
follows: 


BROTHER  GRIFFITH'S  STORY  OF  THE  FAMILY  SECRET. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WAS  it  an  Englishman  or  a  Frenchman  who  first  remarked 
that  every  man  had  a  skeleton  in  his  cupboard  ?  I  am  not  learned 
enough  to  know,  but  I  reverence  the  observation,  whoever 
made  it.  It  speaks  a  startling  truth  through  an  appropriately 
grim  metaphor — a  truth  which  I  have  discovered  by  practical 
experience.  Our  family  had  a  skeleton  in  the  cupboard,  and  the 
name  of  it  was  Uncle  George. 

I  arrived  at  the  knowledge  that  this  skeleton  existed,  and  I 
traced  it  to  the  particular  cupboard  in  which  it  was  hidden,  by 
slow  degrees.  I  was  a  child  when  I  first  began,  to  suspect  that 
there  was  such  a  thing,  and  a  grown  man  when  I  at  last  dis- 
covered that  my  suspicions  were  true. 

My  father  was  a  doctor,  having  an  excellent  practice  in  a 
large  country  town.  I  have  heard  that  he  married  against  the 
wishes  of  his  family.  They  could  not  object  to  my  mother  on 
the  score  of  birth,  breeding,  or  character — they  only  disliked  her 
heartily.  My  grandfather,  grandmother,  uncles,  and  aunts 
all  declared  that  she  was  a  heartless,  deceitful  woman;  all  dis- 
liked her  manner?,  her  opinions,  and  even  the  expression  of  her 
face — all,  with  the  exception  of  my  father's  youngest  brother, 
George. 

George  was  the  unlucky  member  of  our  family.  The  rest  were 
all  clever;  he  was  slow  in  capacity.  The  rest  were  all  remark- 
ably handsome;  he  was  the  sort  of  a  man  that  no  woman  ever 
looks  at  twice.  The  rest  succeeded  in  life;  he  failed.  His  pro- 
fession was  the  same  as  my  father's,  but  he  never  got  on  when 
he  started  in  practice  for  myself.  The  sick  poor,  who  could 
not  choose,  employed  him  and  liked  him.  The  sick  rich,  who 
could — especially  the  ladies — declined  to  call  him  in  when  they 
could  get  anybody  else.  In  experience  he  gained  greatly  by  his 
profession;  in  money  ;in<l  reputation  he  gained  nothing/ 

There  are  very  few  of  us,  however  dull  and  unattractive  we 
may  be  to  outward  appearance,  who  have  not  some  strong  pas 
sion,  some  germ  of  what  is  called  romance,  hidden  more  or  less 
deeply  in  our  natures.     All  the  passion  and  romance  in  the  iiat- 


48  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

ure  of  my  Uncle  George  lay  in  his  love  and  admiration  of  my 
father. 

He  sincerely  worshiped  his  eldest  brother  as  one  of  the  noblest 
of  human  beings.  When  my  father  was  engaged  to  be  married, 
and  when  the  rest  of  the  family,  as  I  have  already  mentioned, 
did  not  hesitate  to  express  their  unfavorable  opinion  of  the  dis- 
position of  his  chosen  wife,  Uncle  George,  who  had  never  vent- 
ured on  differing  with  any  one  before,  to  the  amazement  of 
everybody,  undertook  the  defense  of  his  future  sister-in-law  in 
the  most  vehement  and  positive  manner.  In  his  estimation,  his 
brother's  choice  was  something  sacred  and  indisputable.  The 
lady  might,  and  did,  treat  him  with  unconcealed  contempt, 
laugh  at  his  awkwardness,  grow  impatient  at  his  stammering- 
it  made  no  difference  to  Uncle  George.  She  was  to  be  his 
brother's  wife;  and,  in  virtue  of  that  one  great  fact,  she  became, 
in  the  estimation  of  the  poor  surgeon,  a  ver}^  queen,  who,  by  the 
laws  of  the  domestic  constitution,  could  do  no  wrong. 

When  my  father  bad  been  married  a  little  while,  he  took  bis 
youngest  brother  to  live  with  him  as  his  assistant. 

If  Uncle  George  had  been  mado  President  of  the  College  of 
Surgeons,  he  could  not  have  been  prouder  and  happier  than  he 
was  in  his  new  position.  I  am  afraid  my  father  never  under- 
stood the  depth  of  his  brother's  affection  for  him.  All  the  hard 
work  fell  to  George's  share;  the  long  journeys  at  night,  the 
physicking  of  wearisome  poor  people,  the  drunken  cases,  the  re- 
volting cases — all  the  drudging,  dirty  business  of  the  surgery,  in 
short,  was  turned  over  to  him;  and  day  after  day,  month  after 
month,  he  struggled  through  it  without  a  murmur.  When  his 
brother  and  his  sister-in-law  went  out  to  dine  with  the  country 
gentry  it  never  entered  his  head  to  feel  disappointed  at  being 
left  unnoticed  at  home.  When  the  return  dinners  were  given, 
and  he  was  asked  to  come  in  at  tea-time,  and  left  to  sit  unre- 
garded in  a  corner,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  imagine  that  he 
was  treated  with  any  want  of  consideration  or  respect.  He  was 
part  of  the  furniture  of  the  house,  and  it  was  the  business  as 
well  as  the  pleasure  of  his  life  to  turn  himself  to  any  use  to 
which  his  brother  might  please  to  put  him. 

So  much  for  what  I  have  heard  from  others  on  the  subject  of 
my  Uncle  George.  My  own  personal  experience  of  him  is  lim- 
ited to  what  I  remember  as  a  mere  child.  Let  me  say  something, 
however,  first  about  my  parents,  my  sister,  and  myself. 

My  sister  was  the  eldest  born  and  the  best  ioved.  I  did  not 
come  into  the  world  till  four  years  after  her  birth,  and  no  other 
child  followed  me.  Caroline,  from  her  earliest  days,  was  the 
perfection  of  beauty  and  health.  I  was  small,  weakly,  and,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  almost  as  plain -featured  as  Uncle  George 
himself.  It  would  be  ungracious  and  undutiful  in  me  to  pre- 
sume to  decide  whether  there  was  any  foundation  or  not  for  the 
dislike  that  my  father's  family  always  felt  for  my  mother.  All 
I  can'  venture  to  say  is.  that  her  children  never  had  any  canse  to 
complain  of  her. 

Her  passionate  affection  for  my  sister,  her  pride  iu  the  (-liiM*-< 
beauty,  I  remember  well,  as  also  her  uniform  kindness  and  in- 


QUKEN    OF    H HARTS.  49 

rd  inc.  My  personal  defects  must  have  been  a  sore 
trial  to  her  in  secret,  but  neither  she  nor  my  father  ever  showed 
me  that  they  perceived  any  difference  between  Caroline  and  my- 
self. When  presents  were  made  to  my  sister,  presents  were 
made  to  me.  When  my  father  and  mother  caught  my  sister  up 
in  their  arms  and  kissed  he.r  they  scrupulously  gave  me  my  turn 
afterward.  My  childish  instinct  told  me  that  there  was  a  differ- 
ence in  their  smiles  when  they  looked  at  me  and  looked  at  her,  that 
the  kisses  given  to  Caroline  were  warmer  than  the  kisses  given 
to  me;  that  the  hands  which  dried  her  tears  in  our  childish 
griefs  touched  her  more  gently  than  the  hands  which  dried  mine. 
But  these,  and  other  small  signs  of  preference  like  them,  were 
such  as  no  parents  could  be  expected  to  control.  I  noticed  them 
at  the  time  rather  with  wonder  than  with  repining.  I  recall 
them  now  without  a  harsh  thought  either  toward  my  father  or 
my  mother.  Both  loved  me,  and  both  did  their  duty  by  me.  If 
I  seem  to  speak  constrainedly  of  them  here,  it  is  not  on  my  own 
account.  I  can  honestly  say  that,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul. 

Even  Uncle  George,  fond  as  he  was  of  me,  was  fonder  of  my 
beautiful  child-sister. 

When  I  used  mischievously  to  pull  at  his  lank,  scanty  hair, 
he  would  gently  and  laughingly  take  it  out  of  my  hands,  but  he 
would  let  Caroline  tug  at  it  till  his  dim,  wandering  gray  eyes 
winked  and  watered  again  with  pain.  He  used  to  plunge  peril- 
ously about  the  garden,  in  awkward  imitation  of  the  cantering 
of  a  horse,  while  I  sat  on  his  shoulders,  but  he  would  never  pro- 
ceed at  any  pace  beyond  a  slow  and  safe  walk  when  Caroline 
had  a  ride  in  her  turn.  When  he  took  us  out  walking,  Caro- 
line was  always  on  the  side  next  to  the  wall.  When  we  inter- 
rupted him  over  his  dirty  work  in  the  surgery,  he  used  to  tell 
me  to  go  and  play  until  he  was  ready  for  me:  but  he  would  put 
down  his  bottles,  and  clean  his  clumsy  fingers  on  his  coarse 
apron,  and  lead  Caroline  out  again,  as  if  she  had  been  the 
greatest  lady  in  the  laud.  Ah!  how  he  loved  her!  and  let  me  be 
honest  and  grateful,  and  add,  how  he  loved  me  too! 

When  I  was  eight  years  old  and  Caroline  was  twelve.  I  was 
separated  from  home  for  some  time.  I  had  been  ailing  for 
many  months  previously,  had  got  benefit  from  being  taken  to 
the  sea-side,  and  had  shown  symptoms  of  relapsing  011  bring 
brought  home  again  to  the  midland  county  in  which  we  resided. 
After  much  consultation,  it  was  at  last  resolved  that  I  should 
be  sent  to  live,  until  my  constitution  got  stronger,  with  a 
maiden  sister  of  my  mother's,  who  had  a  house  at  a  watering- 
place  on  the  south  coast . 

1  left  home.  1  remember,  loaded  with  presents,  rejoicing  over 
the  prospect  of  looking  at  the  sea  ai;;iin,  as  cureless  of  the  fut- 
ure and  as  happy  in  the  present  as  any  hoy  could  be.  Uncle 
(leorge  petitioned  fora  holiday  to  take  me  to  the  sea-side,  hut 
lie  could  not  be  spared  from  the  surgery,  He  consoled  himself 
i  me  hy  promising  to  make  me  a  may;mlicetit  model  of  a  ship. 

I  ha\e  that  model  hefoie  my  eyes  now  while  1  write.  It  is 
dusty  with  age;  the  paint,  on  it  is  cracked;  (he  ropes  are  tangled, 
the  sails  are  moth-eaten  and  yellow.  The  hull  is  all  out  of  pro- 


50  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

portion,  and  the  rig  has  been  smiled  at  by  every  nautical  friend 
of  mine  who  has  ever  looked  at  it.  Yet,  worn-out  and  faulty  as 
it  is — inferior  to  the  cheapest  miniature  vessel  nowadays  in  any 
toy-shop  window — I  hardly  know  a  possession  of  mine  in  this 
world  that  I  would  not  sooner  part  with  than  Uncle  George's 
ship. 

My  life  at  the  sea-side  was  a  very  happy  one.  I  remained 
with  my  aunt  more  than  a  year.  My  mother  often  came  to  see 
how  I  was  going  on,  and  at  first  always  brought  my  sister  with 
her,  but  during  the  last  eight  months  of  my  stay  Caroline  never 
once  appeared.  I  noticed  also,  at  the  same  period,  a  change  in 
my  mother's  manner.  She  looked  paler  and  more  anxious  at 
each  succeeding  visit,  and  always  had  long  conferences  in  private 
with  my  aunt.  At  last  she  ceased  to  come  and  see  us  altogether, 
and  only  wrote  to  know  how  my  health  was  getting  on.  My 
father,  too,  who  had,  at  the  earlier  period  of  my  absence  from 
home,  traveled  to  the  sea-  side  to  watch  the  progress  of  my  re- 
covery as  often  as  his  professional  engagements  would  permit, 
now  kept  away  like  my  mother.  Even  Uncle  George,  who  had 
never  been  allowed  a  holiday  to  come  and  see  me,  but  who  had 
hitherto  often  written  and  begged  me  to  write  to  him,  broke  off 
our  correspondence. 

I  was  naturally  perplexed  and  amazed  by  these  changes,  and 
persecuted  my  aunt  to  tell  me  the  reason  of  them.  At  first  she 
tried  to  put  me  off  with  excuses;  then  she  admitted  that  there  was 
trouble  in  our  house;  and  finally  she  confessed  that  the  trouble 
was  caused  by  the  illness  of  my  sister.  When  I  inquired  what 
that  illness  was,  my  aunt  said  it  was  useless  to  attempt  to  ex- 
plain it  to  me.  I  next  applied  to  the  servants.  One  of  them 
was  less  cautious  than  my  aunt,  and  answered  my  questions, 
but  iu  terms  that  I  could  not  comprehend.  After  rauch  expla- 
nation, I  was  made  to  understand  that  "something  was  grow- 
ing on  my  sister's  neck  that  would  spoil  her  beauty  forever, 
and  perhaps  kill  her,  if  it  could  not  be  got  rid  of."  How  well  I 
remember  the  shudder  of  horror  that  ran  through  me  at  the  vague 
idea  of  this  deadly  "  something!"  A  fearful,  awe  struck  curiosity 
to  see  what  Caroline's  illness  was  with  my  own  eyes  troubled 
rny  inmost  heart,  and  I  begged  to  be  allowed  to  go  home  and 
help  to  nurse  her.  This  request  was,  it  is  almost  needless  to  say, 
refused. 

Weeks  passed  away,  and  still  I  heard  nothing,  except  that  my 
sister  continued  to  be  ill. 

One  day  I  privately  wrote  a  letter  to  Uncle  George,  asking 
him,  in  my  childish  way,  to  come  and  tell  me  about  Caroline's 
illness. 

I  knew  where  the  post-office  was,  and  slipped  out  in  the  morn' 
ing  unobserved  and  dropped  my  letter  in  the  box.  1  stole  home 
again  by  the  garden,  and  climbed  in  at  the  window  of  a  back 
parlor  on  the  ground  floor.  The  room  above  was  my  aunt's  bed- 
chamber, and  the  moment  I  \vas  inside  the  house  I  heard  moans 
and  loud  convulsive  sobs  proceeding  from  it.  My  aunt  was  a 
singularly  quiet,  composed  woman.  I  could  not  imagine  that  the 
loud  sobbing  and  moaning  came  from  her,  and  I  ran  down  ter- 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  51 

rifled  into  the  kitchen  to  ask  the  servants  who  was  crying  so  vio- 
lently in  my  aunt's  room. 

I  found  the  housemaid  and  the  cook  talking  together  in 
whispe/s  with  serious  faces.  They  started  when  they  -aw  me  as 
if  I  had  been  a  grown-up  master  who  had  caught  them  neglect- 
ing their  work. 

"  He1s  too  young  to  feel  it  much,"  I  heard  one  say  to  the  other. 
"  So  far  as  he  is  concerned,  it  seems  like  a  mercy  that  it  hap- 
pened no  later." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  told  me  the  worst.  It  was,  indeed, 
my  aunt  who  had  been  crying  in  the  bedroom.  Caroline  was 
dead. 

I  felt  the  blow  more  severely  than  the  servants  or  any  one  else 
about  me  supposed.  Still  I  was  a  child  in  years,  and  I  had  the 
blessed  elasticity  of  a  child's  nature.  If  I  had  been  older,  I 
might  been  too  much  absorbed  in  grief  to  observe  my  aunt  so 
closely  as  I  did  when  she  was  composed  enough  to  see  me  later 
in  the  day. 

I  was  not  surprised  by  the  swollen  state  of  her  eyes,  the  pale- 
ness of  her  cheeks,  or  the  fresh  burst  of  tears  that  came  from  her 
when  she  took  me  in  her  arms  at  meeting.  But  I  was  both 
amazed  and  perplexed  by  the  look  of  terror  that  I  detected  in 
her  face.  It  was  natural  enough  that  she  should  grieve  and 
weep  over  my  sister's  death,  but  why  should  she  have  that 
frightened  look  as  if  some  other  catastrophe  had  happened  ? 

I  asked  if  there  was  any  more  dreadful  news  from  home 
besides  the  news  of  Caroline's  death.  My  aunt  said  No  in  a 
strange,  stifled  voice,  and  suddenly  turned  her  face  from  me. 
Was  my  father  dead ?  No.  My  mother?  No.  Uncle  George? 
My  aunt  tiembled  all  over  as  she  said  No  to  that  also,  and  bade 
me  cease  asking  any  more  questions.  She  was  not  fit  to  bear 
them  yet  she  said,  and  signed  to  the  servant  to  lead  me  out  of 
the  room. 

*  |The  next  day  I  was  told  that  I  was  to  go  home  after  the  fu- 
neral, and  was  taken  out  to  ward  evening  by  the  housemaid,  partly 
for  a  walk,  partly  to  be  measured  for  my  mourning  clothes. 
After  we  had  left  the  tailor's,  I  persuaded  the  girl  to  extend  our 
walk  for  some  distance  along  the  sea-beach,  telling  her,  a 
went,  every  little  anecdote  connected  with  my  lost  sister  that 
came  tenderly  back  to  my  memory  in  those  first  days  of  sorrow. 
She  was  so  interested  in  hearing  and  I  in  speaking,  that  we  let 
the  sun  go  down  before  we  thought  of  turning  back. 

The  evening  was  cloudy,  and  it  got  on  from  dusk  to  dark  by 
the  time  we  approached  the  town  again.     The  housemai'i 
rather  nervous  at  finding  herself  alone  with  me  on  the  b» 
and  once  or  twice  looked  behind  her  distrustfully  as  we  went  on. 
Suddenly  she  squeezed  my  hand  hard  and  said,  "  Let's  get  upon 
the  cliff  as  fast  as  we  can." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  her  mouth  before  I  heard  foot- 
steps behind  me — a  man  came  round  quickly  to  my  side,  snatched 
me  away  from  the  girl,  and,  catching  me  up  in  his  arms,  with- 
out a  word,  covered  my  face  with  kisses.     I  knew  he  wa- 
jtog,  because  my  cheeks  were  instantly  wet  with  his  tears;  but  it 


62  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

was  too  dark  for  me  to  see  who  he  was,  or  even  how  he  was 
dressed.  He  did  not,  I  should  think,  hold  me  half  a  minute  in 
his  arms.  The  housemaid  screamed  for  help.  I  was  put  down 
gently  on  the  sand,  and  the  strange  man  instantly  disappeared 
in  the  darkness. 

When  this  extraordinary  adventure  was  related  to  my  aunt, 
she  seemed  at  first  merely  bewildered  at  hearing  of  it;  but  in  a 
moment  more  there  came  a  change  over  her  face,  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  recollected  or  thought  of  something.  She  turned 
deadly  pale,  and  said  in  a  hurried  way,  very  unusual  with  her: 

"Never  mind;  don't  talk  about  it  anymore.  It  was  only  a 
mischievous  trick  to  frighten  you,  I  dare  say.  Forget  all  about 
it,  my  dear — forget  all  about  it." 

It  was  easier  to  give  this  advice  than  to  make  me  follow  it. 
For  many  nights  after,  I  thought  of  nothing  but  the  strange  man 
who  had  kissed  me  and  cried  over  me. 

Who  could  he  be  ?  Somebody  who  loved  me  very  much,  and 
who  was  very  sorry.  My  childish  logic  carried  "me  to  that 
length.  But  when  I  tried  to  think  over  all  the  grown-up  gen- 
tlemen who  loved  me  very  much,  I  could  never  get  on,  to  my 
own  satisfaction,  beyond  my  father  and  my  Uncle  George. 


CHAPTER  II. 

I  WAS  taken  home  on  the  appointed  day  to  suffer  the  trial — a 
hard  one  even  at  my  tender  years — of  witnessing  my  mother's 
passionate  grief  and  my  father's  mute  despair.  I  remember  that 
the  scene  of  our  first  meeting  after  Caroline's  death  was  wisely 
and  considerately  shortened  by  my  aunt,  who  took  me  out  of  the 
room.  She  seemed  to  have  a  confused  desire  to  keep  me  from 
leaving  her  after  the  door  had  closed  behind  us;  but  I  broke 
away  and  ran  down-stairs  to  the  surgery,  tago  and  cry  for  my 
lost  playmate  with  the  sharer  of  all  our  games,  Uncle  George. 

I  opened  the  surgery  door,  and  could  see  nobody.  I  dried  my 
tears,  and  looked  all  round  the  room— it  was  empty.  I  ran  up- 
stairs again  to  Uncle  George's  garret  bedroom— he  was  not 
there;  his  cheap  hair  brush  and  old  cast-off  razor-case  that  had 
belonged  to  my  grandfather  were  not  on  the  dressing-table. 
Had  he  got  some  other  bedroom  ?  I  went  out  on  the  landing, 
and  called  softly,  with  an  unaccountable  terror  and  sinking  at 
my  heart: 

"  Uncle  George!" 

Nobody  answered;  but  my  aunt  came  hastily  up  the  garret 
stairs. 

"  Hush !"  she  said.  "  You  must  never  call  that  name  out  here 
again !" 

She  stopped  suddenly,  and  looked  as  if  her  own  words  bad 
frightened  her. 

"Is  Uncle  (George  dead?"  I  asked. 

My  aunt  turned  red  and  pale,  and  stammered. 

I  did  not  wait  to  hear  what  she  said .  I  brushed  past  her, 
down  the  stairs.  My  heart  was  bursting— my  flesh  felt  cold, 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  53 

Iran  breathlessly  and  recklessly  into  the  room  wh<>re  my  father 
and  mother  had  received  me.  They  were  both  sitting  there 
still.  I  ran  up  to  them,  wringing  my  hands,  and  crying  out  in 
a  passion  of  tears: 

"  Is  Uncle  George  dead  ?" 

My  mother  gave  a  scream  that  terrified  me  into  instant 
silence  and  stillness.  My  father  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  rang 
the  bell  that  summoned  the  maid,  then  seized  me  roughly  by 
the  arm  and  dragged  me  out  of  the  room. 

He  took  me  down  into  the  study,  seated  himself  in  his  accus- 
tomed chair,  and  put  me  before  him  between  his  knees.     His 
were  awfully  white,   and   I   felt  his   two   hands,  as   they 
grasped  my  shoulders,  shaking  violently. 

"You  are  never  to  mention  the  name  of  Uncle  George  again," 
he  said,  in  a  quick,  angry,  trembling  whisper.  ''Never  to  me, 
never  to  your  mother,  never  to  your  aunt,  never  to  anybody  in 
this  world  I  Never — never — never!'' 

The  repetition  of  the  word  terrified  me  even  more  than  the 
suppressed  vehemence  with  which  he  spoke.  He  saw  that  I  was 
frightened,  and  softened  his  manner  a  little  before  he  went  on. 

"  You  will  never  see  Uncle  George  again,''  he  said.  "Your 
mother  and  I  love  YOU  dearly;  but  if  you  forget  what  I  have 
told  you  you  will  be  sent  away  from  home.  Never  speak  that 
name  again — mind,  never!  Now,  kiss  me,  and  go  away." 

How  his  lips  trembled — and  oh,  how  cold  they  felt  on  mine! 

I  shrunk  out  of  the  room  the  moment  he  had  kissed  me,  and 
went  and  hid  myself  in  the  garden. 

"  Uncle  George  is  gone.  I  am  never  to  see  him  any  more;  I 
am  never  to  speak  of  him  again '' — those  were  the  words  I  re- 
peated to  myself,  with  indescribable  terror  and  confusion,  the 
moment  I  was  alone.  There  was  something  unspeakably  horrible 
to  my  young  mind  in  this  mystery  which  I  was  commanded  al- 
ways to  respect,  and  which,  so  far  as  I  then  knew.  I  could  never 
hope  to  see  revealed.  My  father,  my  mother,  my  aunt,  all  ap- 
peared to  be  separated  from  me  now  by  some  impassable  barrier. 
Home  seemed  home  no  longer  with  Caroline  dead.  Uncle  George 
gone,  and  a  forbidden  subject  of  talk  perpetually  and  mysteri- 
ously interposing  between  my  parents  and  me. 

Though  I  never  infringed  the  command  my  father  had  given 
me  in  his  study  (his  words,  and  looks,  and  that  dreadful  scream 
of  my  mother's  which  seemed  to  be  still  ringing  in  my  ears, 
were  more  than  enough  to  insure  my  obedience),  I  also  never  lost 
the  secret  desire  to  penetrate  the  darkness  which  clouded  over 
the  fate  of  Uncle  George. 

*  For  two  years  I  remained  at  home  and  discovered  nothing.  If 
I  asked  the  servants  about  my  uncle,  they  could  only  tell  me 
that  one  morning  he  disappeared  from  the  house.  Of  the  mem- 
bers of  my  father's  family  I  could  make  no  inquiries.  They 
lived  far  away,  and  never  cam*- to  sec  us:  and  the  idea  of  writ- 
ing to  them,  at  my  age  and  in  my  position,  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. My  aunt  was  as  unapproachably  silent  as  my  lather  and 
mother;  but  1  never  forgot  how  her  ia<  .vhen  she 

reflected   fora  moment    alter  hearing  of  my  extraordinary  ad- 


54  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 


going  home  with  the  servant  over  the  sands  af 
night.  The  more  I  thought  of  that  change  of  countenance  ii  ! 
connection  with  what  had  occurred  on  my  return  to  my  father's. 
house,  the  more  certain  I  felt  that  the  stranger  who  had  kissed 
me  and  wept  over  me  must  have  been  no  other  than  Uncle 
George. 

At  the  end  of  my  two  years  at  home  I  was  sent  to  sea  in  the 
merchant  navy  by  my  own  earnest  desire.  I  had  always  de- 
termined to  be  a  sailor  from  the  time  when  I  first  went  to  stay 
with  my  aunt  at  the  sea-side,  and  I  persisted  long  enough  in  my 
resolution  to  make  my  parents  recognize  the  necessity  of  acced- 
ing to  my  wishes. 

My  new  life  >  delighted  me,  and  I  remained  away  on  foreign 
stations  more  than  four  years.  When  I  at  length  returned  home, 
it  was  to  find  a  new  affliction  darkened  our  fireside.  My  father 
had  died  on  the  very  day  when  I  sailed  for  my  return  voyage  to 
England. 

Absence  and  change  of  scene  had  in  no  respect  weakened  my 
desire  to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  Uncle  George's  disappearance. 
My  mother's  health  was  so  delicate  that  I  hesitated  for  some  time 
to  approach  the  forbidden  subject  in  her  presence.  When  I  at 
last  ventured  to  refer  to  it,  suggesting  to  her  that  any  prudent 
reserve  which  might  have  been  necessary  while  I  was  a  child, 
need  no  longer  be  persisted  in  now  that  1  was  growing  to  be  a 
young  man,  she  fell  into  a  violent  fit  of  trembling,  and  com- 
manded me  to  say  no  more.  It  had  been  my  father's  will,  she 
said,  that  the  reserve  to  which  I  referred  should  be  always 
adopted  toward  me;  he  had  not  authorized  her,  before  he  died, 
to  speak  more  openly;  and  now  that  ho  was  gone,  she  would  not 
so  much  as  think  of  acting  on  her  own  unaided  judgment.  My 
aunt  said  the  same  thing  in  effect  when  I  appealed  to  her.  De- 
termined not  to  be  discouraged  even  yet,  I  undertook  a  journey, 
ostensibly  to  pay  my  respects  to  my  father's  family,  but  with  the 
secret  intention  of  trying  what  I  could  learn  in  that  quarter  on 
the  subject  of  Uncle  George. 

My  investigations  led  to  some  results,  though  they  were  by  no 
means  satisfactory.  George  had  always  been  looked  upon  with 
something  like  contempt  by  his  handsome  sisters  and  his  pros- 
perous brothers,  and  he  had  not  improved  his  position  in  the 
family  by  his  warm  advocacy  of  his  brother's  cause  at  the  time 
of  my  father's  marriage.  I  found  that  my  uncle's  surviving 
relatives  now  spoke  of  him  slightingly  and  carelessly.  They 
assured  mo  that  they  had  never  heard  from  him,  and  that  they 
knew  nothing  about  him,  except  that  he  had  gone  away  to  settle, 
as  they  supposed,  in  some  foreign  place,  after  having  behaved 
very  basely  and  badly  to  my  father.  He  had  been  traced  to 
London,  where  he  had  sold  out  of  the  funds  the  small  share  of 
money  which  he  had  inherited  after  his  father's  death,  and  he 
had  been  seen  on  the  deck  of  a  packet  bound  for  France  later  on 
the  same  day.  Beyond  this  nothing  was  known  about  him.  In 
what  the  alleged  baseness  of  his  behavior  had  consisted  none  of 
his  brothers  and  sisters  could  tell  me.  My  father  had  refused  to 
pain  them  by  going  into  particulars,  not  only  at  the  time  of  his 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

>rotlior's  disappearance,   but  afterward,   whenever  (he  subject 
'  ioned.     George  had  always  been  the  black  sheep  of  the 
and  lit-  must  have  beer  urns  of  his  own    baseness,  or 

ould  certainly  have  written  to  explain  and  t«»  juMit\   him 
lelf. 

Sudi  were  the  particulars  which  I  gleaned  during  my  visit  to 
ny  I  family.     To  my  mind,  they  tended  rather  to  deepen 

han  to  reveal  the  mystery.     That  such  a  gentle,  docile,  affec- 
tionate creature  as  Uncle  George  should  have  injured  the  br 
he  loved  by  word  or  deed,  at  any  period  of  their  intere< 
seemed  incredible;  but  that  he  should  be  guilty  of  an  act  of  base- 
ness at  the  very  time  when  my  sister  was  dying  was  simply  and 
plainly  impossible.     And  yet  there  was  the  incomprehensible 
fact  staring  me  in  the  face  that  the  death  of  Caroline  and  the 

ranee  of  Uncle  George  had  taken   place  in  the 
week!    Never  did  I  feel  more  daunted  and  bewildered  by  the 
family  secret  than  after  I  had  heard  all  the  particulars  in  con- 
nection with  it  that  my  father's  relatives  had  to  tell  me.        i 

I  may  pass  over  the  events  of  the  next  few  years  of  my  life 
briefly  enough. 

My  nautical  pursuits  filled  up  all  my  time,  and  took  me  far 
away  from  my  country  and  my  friends.     But,  whatever  I  did, 
and  wherever  I  went,  the  memory  of  Uncle  George,  and  the  de- 
sire to  penetrate  the  mystery  of  his  disappearance-,  haunted  me 
like  familiar  spirits.     Often,  in  the  lonely  watches  of  the  night 
at  sea,  did  I  recall  the  dark  evening  on  the  beach,  the  strange 
man's  hurried  embrace,  the  startling  sensation  of  feeling  his 
tears  on   my  cheeks,  the  disappearance  of  him   before  I   had 
breath  or  self-possession   enough  to  say  a  word.     Often  did  I 
think  over  the  inexplicable  events  that  followed,  when  I  had  re- 
turned,  after  my  sister's   funeral,   to  my  father's  house;  and 
oftener  still  did  I  puzzle  my  brains  vainly  in  the  attempt  to  form 
some  plan  for  inducing  my  mother  or  my  aunt  to  disclose  the 
secret  which  they  had  hitherto  kept  from  me  so  perseverin.uly. 
My  only  chance  of  knowing  what  had  really  happened  to  I 
George,  my  only  hope  of  seeing  him  again,  rested  with  those  two 
md  dear  relatives.     I  despaired  of  ever  getting  my  mother 
ak  on  the  forbidden  subject  after  what  had  passed  between 
ut  I  felt  more  sanguine  about  my  prospects  of  ultimately 
inducing  my  aunt  to  relax  in  her  discretion.     My  anticipations, 
in  this  direction  were  not  destined  to  be  fulfilled.     On 
my  ut  xt  visit  to  England  I  found  my  aunt  prostrated  by  a  ; 
lytic  attack,  which  deprived  her  of  the  power  of  speech.    She 
i  afterward  in  my  arms,  leaving  me  her  sole  heir.     I 
searched  anxiously  among  her  papers  for  some  reft  >  the 

family  mystery,  but  found  no  clew  to  guide  me.  All  my 
mother's  letters  to  her  sister  at  the  time  of  Caroline's  illness  and 
death  had  been  destroyed. 

CHAPTER  III. 

MORE  years  passed;  my  mother  followed  my  aunt  to  thegr 
and  still  I  was  as  far  as  ever  from  making  any  discoveries  in  re- 


56  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

lation  to  Uncle  George.  Shortly  after  the  period  of  tliis  last  af- 
fliction my  health  gaye  way,  and  I  departed,  by  my  doctor's  ad- 
vice, to  try  some  baths  in  the  south  of  France. 

I  traveled  slowly  to  my  destination,  turning  aside  from  the 
direct  road,  and  stopping  wherever  I  pleased.  One  evening, 
when  I  was  not  more  than  two  or  three  days'  journey  from  the 
baths  to  which  I  was  bound,  I  was  struck  by  the  picturesque 
situation  of  a  little  town  placed  on  the  brow  of  a  hill  at  some 
distance  from  the  main  road,  and  resolved  to  have  a  nearer  look 
at  the  place,  with  a  view  to  stopping  there  for  the  night,  if  it 
pleased  me.  I  found  the  principal  inn  clean  and  quiet — ordered 
my  bed  there — and,  after  dinner,  strolled  out  to  look  at  the 
church.  No  thought  of  Uncle  George  was  in  my  mind  when  I 
entered  the  building;  and  yet,  at  that  very  moment,  chance  was 
leading  me  to  the  discovery  which,  for  so  many  years  past,  I  had 
vainly  endeavored  to  make — the  discovery  which  I  had  given  up 
as  hopeless  since  the  day  of  my  mother's  death. 

I  fV>und  nothing  worth  notice  in  the  church,  and  was  about  to 
leave  it  again,  when  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  pretty  view  through 
a  side  door,  and  stopped  to  admire  it. 

The  churchyard  formed  the  foreground,  and  below  it  the  hill- 
side sloped  away  gently  into  the  plain,  over  which  the  sun  was 
setting  in  full  glory.  The  cure  of  the  church  was  reading  his 
breviary,  walking  up  and  down  a  gravel  path  that  parted  the 
rows  of  graves.  In  the  course  of  my  wanderings  I  had  learned 
to  speak  French  as  fluently  as  most  Englishmen,  and  when  the 
priest  came  near  me  I  said  a  few  words  in  praise  of  the  view,  and 
complimented  him  on  the  neatness  and  prettiness  of  the  church- 
yard. He  answered  with  great  politeness,  and  we  got  into  con- 
versation together  immediately. 

As  we  strolled  along  the  gravel- walk  my  attention  was  at- 
tracted by  one  of  the  graves  standing  apart  from  the  rest.  The 
cross  at  the  head  of  it  differed  remarkably,  in  some  points  of 
appearance  from  the  crosses  on  the  other  graves.  While  all  the 
rest  had  garlands  hung  oh  them,  this  one  cross  was  quite  bare; 
and,  more  extraordinary  still,  no  name  was  inscribed  on  it. 

The  priest,  observing  that  I  stopped  to  look  at  the  graves, 
shook  his  head  and  sighed. 

"  A  countryman  of  yours  is  buried  there,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
present  at  his  death.  He  had  borne  the  burden  of  a  great  sor- 
row among  us,  in  this  town,  for  many  weary  years,  and  his  con- 
duct had  taught  us  to  respect  and  pity  him  with  all  our  hearts." 

"  How  is  it  that  his  name  is  not  inscribed  over  his  grave  ?"  I 
inquired. 

"  It  was  suppressed  by  his  own  desire,"  answered  the  priest, 
with  some  little  hesitation.  "  He  confessed  to  me  in  his  last 
moments  that  he  had  lived  here  under  an  assumed  name.  I 
asked  his  real  name,  and  he  told  it  to  me,  with  the  particulars 
of  his  sad  story.  He  had  reasons  for  desiring  to  be  forgotten 
after  his  death.  Almost  the  last  words  he  spoke  were,  '  Let  my 
name  die  with  me.'  Almost  the  last  request  he  made  was  that 
I  would  keep  that  name  a  secret  from  all  the  world  excepting 
only  one  person." 


T8. 

id  r. 

i  nephi  1  flic  pn 

The     moment     the     la-t     \\ord    U.i^    out    of    his    mouth,    n 

ing     hound.       1    su|)|>"  e    I     imi-t    have 

chai:  for    (he  mrr  looked    ;tt    ine  with   sudden   at- 

*  >u  and  ml. 

nepheu V  the   priest    went  on.  "  whom  he  had    loved   like 
wn  child.      He  told  me  that  if  this  nephew  ever  traced  him 
to  liis  huriul-place,  and  asked  ahout  him,  I  was  free  in  that 
to  disclose  all  1  knew.    '  I  should  like  my  little  ( 'harley  to  know 
the   truth,'   he  said.      '  In   spite  of    the   difference  in  our  ; 
i 'harley  and  I  were  playmates  years  ago." 

My  heart  heat  faster,  and  I  felt  a  choking  sensation  at  the 
throat  the  moment  I  heard  the  priest  unconsciously  mention  my 
v'hri-iian  Lame  in  reporting  the  dying  man's  last  words. 

•dd  steady  my  voice  and  feel  certain  of  my  self- 

D,  I  communicated  my  family  name  to  the  cure,  and 

i  him  if  that  was  not  part  of  the  secret  that  he  had  been  re- 

rve. 

He  started  hack  several  steps,  and  clasped  his  hands  amazedly. 
an   it   her"  lie  said,  in  low  tones,  gazing  at  me  earnestly, 
with  something  like  dread  in  his  face. 

him  my  passport,  and  looked  away  toward  the  grave. 
The  tears  came  into  my  eyes  as  the  recollections  of  past  days 
crowded  hack  on  me.  Hardly  knowing  what  I  did.  I  knelt  down 
%y  the  grave,  and  smoothed  the  grass  over  it  with  my  hand.  Oh, 
Uncle  George,  why  not  have  told  your  secret  to  your  old  play- 
mate? Why  leave  him  to  find  you  here? 

The  priest   raised  me  gently,  and  begged  me  to  go  with  him 

into  his  own   house.     On  our  way  there,  I  mentioned  persons 

and  places  that  I  thought  my  uncle  might  have  spoken  of,  in  or- 

isfy  my  companion  that  I  was  really  the  person  I  repre- 

1  myself  to  he.     By  the  time  we  had  entered  his  little  par- 

nd  had  sat  down  alone  in  it,  we  were  almost  like  old  friends 

lier. 

I  thought  it  hest  that  I  should  begin  by  telling  all  that  I  have  re- 
lated here,  on  the  subject  of  Uncle  George,  and  his  disappearance 
from  home.  My  host  listened  with  a  very  sad  face,  and  said, 
when  I  had  done: 

44 1  ran  understand  your  anxiety  to  know  what  I  am  author- 

:  >  tell  you,  but  pardon  me   it   I   say  first  that  there  ai 
cu  instance.^   in    your   uncle's   story    which    it  may  pain  you  to 
hear—  He  Stopped  suddenly. 

"  \Vhi"h  it  may  pain  me  to  hear  as  a  nephew  ':"   1 
"No,"  said  Mie  priest,  looking  away  from  me.   "  as  a  son." 
I  gratefully  expressed  my  sen<e  of  -lie  delicacy  and  kind 
which    had    prompted    my  companion's   warning,  but  I  be 
him  at  the  same  time  to  keep  me  no  1-mger  in  suspense,  and  to 
tell  me  t;  ,  triuh,  n  >  matter  how  painfully  it  might  affect 

me  a-  tier. 

••  In  telling  me  all  you  ki>"w  al"»u»  what  you  t^nr  the  Fa'uilr 

-aid  the  pri.  u  hav,-  me'iti"ned  as  a  -traiiL:< 

nee  that  your  sisterV  deal),  ai.il  your  x;nc!i 


58  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

took  place  at  the  same  time.  Did  you  ever  suspect  what  cause 
it  was  that  occasioned  your  sister's  death  ?" 

"  I  only  knew  what  my  father  told  me,  and  what  all  our 
friends  believed — that  she  died  of  a  tumor  in  the  neck,  or,  as  I 
sometimes  heard  it  stated,  from  the  effect  on  her  constitution 
of  a  tumor  in  the  neck.' 

"She  died  under  an  operation  for  the  removal  of  that  tumor," 
said  the  priest  in  low  tones;  "  and  the  operator  was  your  Uncle 
George." 

In  those  few  words  all  the  truth  burst  upon  me. 

"  Console  yourself  with  the  thought  that  the  long  martyrdom 
of  his  life  is  over,"  the  priest  went  on.  "  He  rests;  he  is  at 
peace.  He  and  his  little  darling  understand  each  other,  and  are 
happy  now.  That  thought  bore  him  up  to  the  last  on  his  death- 
bed. He  always  spoke  of  your  sister  as  his  '  little  darling.'  He 
firmly  believed  that  she  was  waiting  to  forgive  and  console  him 
in  the  other  world — and  who  shall  say  he  was  deceived  in  that 
belief?" 

Not  I.     Not  any  one  who  has  ever  loved  and  suffered,  surely. 

"It  was  out  of  the  depths  of  his  self-sacrificing  love  for  the 
child  that  he  drew  the  fatal  courage  to  undertake  the  opera- 
tion," continued  the  priest.  "  Your  father  naturally  shrank 
from  attempting  it.  His  medical  brethren  whom  he  consulted 
all  doubted  the  propriety  of  taking  any  measures  for  the  re- 
moval of  the  tumor,  in  the  particular  condition  and  situation  of 
it  when  they  were  called  in!  Your  uncle  alone  differed  with 
them.  He  was  too  modest  a  man  to  say  so,  but  your  mother 
found  it  out.  The  deformity  of  her  beautiful  child  horrified  her. 
She  was  desperate  enough  to  catch  at  the  faintest  hope  of  reme- 
dying it  that  any  one  might  hold  out  to  her,  and  she  persuaded 
your  uncle  to  put  his  opinion  to  the  proof.  Her  horror  at  the 
deformity  of  the  child,  and  her  despair  at  the  prospect  of  its 
lasting  for  life,  seem  to  have  utterly  blinded  her  to  all  natural 
sense  of  the  danger  of  the  operation.  It  is  hard  to  know  how  to 
say  it  to  you,  her  son,  but  it  must  be  told  nevertheless,  that  one 
day,  when  your  father  was  out,  she  untruly  informed  your 
uncle  that  his  brother  had  consented  to  the  performance  of  the 
operation,  and  that  he  had  gone  purposely  out  of  the  house 
because  he  had  not  nerve  enough  to  stay  and  witness  it. 
After  that,  your  uncle  no  longer  hesitated.  He  had  no  fear  of 
results,  provided  he  could  be  certain  of  his  own  courage.  All 
he  dreaded  was  the  effect  on  him  of  his  love  for  the  child  when 
he  first  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  dreadful  necessity  of 
touching  her  skin  with  the  knife." 

I  tried  hard  to  control  myself,  but  I  could  not  repress  a  shud- 
der at  those  words. 

'x  "It  is  useless  to  shock  you  by  going  into  particulars,'  said  the 
priest,  considerately.  "Let  it  be  enough  if  I  say  that  your  uncle's 
fortitude  failed  to  support  him  when  he  wanted  it  most.  His 
love  for  the  child  shook  the  firm  hand  which  had  never  trembled 
before.  In  a  word,  the  operation  failed.  Your  father  returned, 
and  found  his  child  dying.  The  frenzy  of  his  despair  when  the 
truth  was  told  him  carried  him  to  excesses  which  it  shocks  me 


HEARTS. 

to  mention-  which  began  in  his  degrading  his  brother 

hlow,  which   ended    in    his   binding   himself   by  an  oath  to 
that   brother  sutler  public  punishment  for  his  fatal  raph- 
>irt    of   law.     Your  uncle  was  too  heart-broken  by 
had   happened   to   feel  those  outr:i  OHM- men  might 

frit  thfin.     He  looked  for  one  moment  at  his  >i>ter-in-law 
not  like  to  say  your  mother,  considering  what  I  have  now 
to  tell  you).  ;  e  would  acknowledge  that  she  had  en- 

couraged him  to  attempt  the  operation,  and  that  she  had  dec. 
him  in  saying  that  he  had  his  brother's  permission  to  try  it.  She 
ilent.  and  when  she  spoke,  it  was  to  join  her  husband  in 
denouncing  him  as  the  murderer  of  their  child.  Whether  fear  of 
your  father's  anger,  or  revengeful  indignation  against  your  uncle 
most  actuated  her,  I  cannot  presume  to  inquire  in  your  presence. 
I  can  only  state  facts." 

The  priest  paused,  and  looked  at  me  anxiously.  I  could  not 
speak  to  him  at  that  moment — I  could  only  encourage  him  to 
proceed  by  pressing  his  hand. 

He  resumed  in  i  ins: 

••  Meanwhile,  your  uncle  turned  to  your  father,  and  spoke  the 
last  words  he  was  ever  to  address  to  his  eldest  brother  in  this 
world.  He  said,  '  I  have  deserved  the  worst  your  anger  can  in- 
flict on  m^,  but  I  will  spare  you  the  scandal  of  bringing  me  to 
justice  in  open  court.  The  law,  if  it  found  me  guilty,  could  at 
the  worst  but  banish  me  from  my  country  and  my  friends.  I 
will  go  of  my  own  accord.  God  is  my  witness  that  I  honestly 
believed  I  could  save  the  child  from  deformity  and  suffering.  I 
have  risked  all  and  lost  all.  My  heart  and  spirit  are  broken.  I 
am  tit  for  nothing  but  to  go  anci  hide  myself,  and  my  shame  and 
ry,  from  all  eyes  that  have  ever  looked  on  me.  I  shall 
r  come  back,  never  expect  your  pity  or  forgiveness.  If  you 
think  less  harshly  of  me  when  I  am  gone,  keep  secret  what  has 
happened;  let  no  other  lips  say  of  me  what  yours  and  your  wife's 
have  said.  I  shall  think  that  forbearance 'a  tenement  enough- 
atonement  greater  than  I  have  deserved.  Forget  me  in  this 
world.  May  we  meet  in  another,  where  the  secrets  of  all  hearts 
are  opened,  and  where  the  child  who  is  gone  before  may  make 
peace  between  us!'  He  said  those  words  and  went  out.  Your 
father  never  saw  him  or  heard  from  him  again." 

I  knew  the  reason  now  why  my  father  had  never  confided  the 
truth  to  any  one,  his  own  family  included.  My  mother  had  evi- 
dently confessed  all  to  her  sister  under  the  seal  of  .  and 
there  the  dreadful  disclosure  had  been  arrested. 

"Your  uncle  told  me,"  the  priest  continued,  "that  before  he 
left  England  betook  lea\e  of  you  by  stealth,  in  a  place  you  were 
staying  at  by  \\\<  le.  lie  had  not  the  1  quit  his 

country  and  his  friend^  forever  without  kiting  you  for  th< 
time.      He  followed  you  in  the  dark,  and   caught   you  up  in  his 
arms,  and  left  \  ou  again  before  yon  had  a  chance  of  discovering 
him.     The  next  day  he  quilted  England." 
his  place'.''-  I  a^ked. 

"  Yes.      I  le  had  spent   a  v. 

at  the  time  he  was  a  pupil  in  the  Hotel  IMtu.  and  to  tin-  , 


60  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

he  returned  to  hide,  to  suffer,  and  to  die.  We  all  saw  that  he 
was  a  man  crushed  and  broken  by  some  great  sorrow,  and  we 
respected  him  and  his  affliction,  fie  lived  alone,  and  only  came 
out  of  doors  toward  evening,  when  he  used  to  sit  on  the  brow  of 
the  hill  yonder,  with  his  head  on  his  hand,  looking  toward  Eng- 
land. That  place  seemed  a  favorite  with  him,  and  he  is  buried 
close  by  it.  He  revealed  the  story  of  his  past  life  to  no  living 
soul  here  but  me,  and  to  me  he  only  spoke  when  his  last  hour 
^  as  approaching.  What  he  had  suffered  during  his  long  exile 
no  man  can  presume  to  say.  I,  who  saw  more  of  him  than 
any  one.  never  heard  a  word  of  complaint  fall  from  his  lips. 
He  had  the  courage  of  the  martyrs  while  he  lived,  and  the  res- 
ignation of  the  saints  when  he  died.  Just  at  the  last  his  mind 
wandered.  He  said  he  saw  his  little  darling  waiting  by  the 
bedside  to  lead  him  away,  and  he  died  with  a  smile  on  his  face— 
the  first  I  had  ever  seen  there." 

The  priest  ceased,  and  we  went  out  together  in  the  mournful 
twilight,  and  stood  for  a  little  while  on  the  brow  of  the  hill  where 
Uncle  George  used  to  sit,  with  his  face  turned  toward  England. 
How  my  heart  ached  for  him  as  I  thought  of  what  he  must  have 
suffered  in  the  silence  and  solitude  of  his  long  exile!  Was  it  well 
for  me  that  I  had  discovered  the  Family  Secret  at  last?  I  have 
sometimes  thought  not.  I  have  sometimes  wished  that  the  dark- 
ness had  never  been  cleared  away  which  once  hid  from  me  the 
fate  of  Uncle  George. 


THE  THIRD  DAY. 

FINE  again.  Our  guest  rode  out,  with  her  ragged  little  groom, 
as  usual.  There  was  no  news  yet  in  the  paper — that  is  to  say, 
no  news  of  George  or  his  ship. 

On  this  duy  Morgan  completed  his  second  story,  and  in  two  or 
three  days  more  I  expected  to  finish  the  last  of  my  own  contri- 
butions. Owen  was  still  behindhand  and  still  despondent. 

The  lot  drawn  to-night  was  Five.  This  proved  to  be  the  num- 
ber of  the  first  of  Morgan's  stories,  which  he  had  completed  be- 
fore we  began  the  readings.  His  second  story,  finished  this 
day,  being  still  uncorrected  by  me,  could  not  yet  be  added  to  the 
common  stock. 

On  being  informed  that  it  had  come  to  his  turn  to  occupy 
the  attention  of  the  company,  Morgan  startled  us  by  imme- 
diately objecting  to  the  trouble  of  reading  his  own  composi- 
tion, and  by  coolly  handing  it  over  to  me,  on  the  ground  that 
my  numerous  corrections  had  made  it,  to  all  intents  and  pur- 
poses, my  story. 

Owen  and  I  both  remonstrated;  and  Jessie,  mischievously  per- 
sisting in  her  favorite  jest  at  Morgan's  expense,  entreated  that 
he  would  read,  if  it  was  only  for  her  sake.  Finding  that  we 
were  all  determined,  and  all  against  him,  he  declared  that,  rather 
than  hear  our  voices  any  longer,  he  would  submit  to  the  minor 
inconvenience  of  listening  to  his  own.  Accordingly,  he  took  his 


Til  r-EN    OF    HEARTS.  61 

m  mi  user  i  again,  ami,  with  an  air  of  surly   resign.! 

im, 

••  1  <I<>n't  think  you  will  like  this  story,  miss,"  he  began,  ad- 
••  but  I  shall  road  it,  nevertheless,  with  the  {great- 
est pi  ins  in  a  stable — it  gropes  its  way  through  a, 

i  — it  k<  •  pa ny  with  a  hostler — and  it  stops  wit  hoi 

end.      What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Aft  ing  his  audience  with  this  promising  preface,  Mor- 

gan indulged  himself  in  a  chuckle  of  supreme  satisfaction,  and 
then  began  to  read,  without  wasting  another  preliminary  word 
on  any  one  of  us. 


BROTHER  MORGAN'S  STORY  OP  THE  DREAM -WOMAN. 


CHAPTER  I. 

I  HAD  not  been  settled  much  more  than  six  weeks  in  my  coun- 
i  act  ice  when  1  was  sent  for  to  a  neighboring  town,  to  con- 
sult  with  the  resident  medical  man  there  on  a  case  of  very 
dangerous  illness. 

horse  had  come  down  with  me  at  the  end  of  a  long  ride  the 
night  before,  and  had  hurt  himself,  luckily,  much  more  than  he 
had  hurt  his  master.  Being  deprived  of  the  animal's  services,  I 
d  for  my  destination  by  the  coach  (there  were  no  railways 
at  that  time),  and  I  hoped  to  get  back  again,  toward  the  after- 
noon, in  the  same  way. 

After  the  consultation  was  over,  I  went  to  the  principal  inn  of 
»wn  to  wait  for  the  coach.     When  it  came  up  it  was  full  in- 
•:iid  out.    There  was  no  resource  left  me  but  to*  get  home  as 
cheaply  as  I  could  by  hiring  a  gig.     The  price  asked  for  thi 
commodation  struck  me  as  being  so  extortionate,  that  Id 
mined  to  look  out  for  an  inn  of  inferior  pretensions,  and  to  try  if 
I  could  not  make  a  better  bargain  with  a  less  prosperous  estab- 
lishment. 

I  soon  found  a  likely -looking  house,  dingy  and  quiet,  with  an 
Old-fashioned  sign,  that  had  evidently  not  been  repainted  for 
many  years  past.  The  landlord,  in  this  case,  was  not  above  mak- 
ing a  small  profit,  and  as  soon  as  we  came  to  terms  he  rang  the 
yard-bell  to  order  the  gig. 

"  Has  Robert  not  come  back  from  that  errand?''  asked  the 
landlord,  appealing  to  the  waiter  who  answered  the  bell. 
"  No.  sir.  he  hasn't/' 
"  Well.  then,  you  must  wake  up  1- 

"Wake  up  Isaac!''  I  repeated:  "  that  sounds  rather  odd.  Do 
your  hostlers  go  to  U>d  in  the  day  tit; 

"This  one  docs."  said  the  landlord,  smiling  to  himself  in 
rather  a  strange  way. 

too,"  added   the  waiter;  "  I  sha'nt  forget  the 
turn  me  the  first  time  1  heard  him." 

\  mind  about  tli  I    the  propr 

nd  rou  up.     The  gentleman's  waiting  for  h 


42  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

great  deal  more  than  they  either  of  them  said.  I  began  to  sus- 
pect that  I  might  be  on  the  trace  of  something  professionally  in 
teresting  to  me  as  a  medical  man,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  tc 
look  at  the  hostler  before  the  waiter  awakened  him. 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  1  interposed;  "I  have  rather  a  fancy  few 
seeing  this  man  before  you  wake  him  up.  I'm  a  doctor;  and  il 
this  queer  sleeping  and  dreaming  of  his  comes  from  anything 
wrong  in  his  brain,  I  may  be  able  to  tell  you  what  to  do  witi 
him." 

"  I  rather  think  you  will  find  his  complaint  past  all  doctoring 
sir,"  said  the  landlord;  "  but  if  you  would  like  to  see  him,  you'rt 
welcome,  I'm  sure." 

He  led  the  way  across  a  yard  and  down  a  passage  to  the  sta 
bles,  opened  one  of  the  doors,  and  waiting  outside  himself,  tolc 
me  to  look  in. 

I  found  myself  in  a  two-stall  stable.  In  one  of  the  stalls  j 
horse  was  munching  his  corn;  in  the  other  an  old  man  was  lyinj 
asleep  on  a  litter. 

I  stooped  and  looked  at  him  attentively.  It  was  a  withered 
woe- begone  face.  The  eyebrows  were  painfully  contracted ;  th( 
mouth  was  fast  set,  and  drawn  down  at  the  corners.  The  hoi 
low  wrinkled  cheeks,  and  the  scanty  grizzled  hair,  told  their  owr 
tale  of  some  past  sorrow  or  suffering.  He  was  drawing  hit 
breath  convulsively  when  I  first  looked  at  him,  and  in  a  momenl 
more  he  began  to  talk  in  his  sleep. 

"Wake  up!"  I  heard  him  say,  in  a  quick  whisper,  through  hif 
clinched  teeth.  "  Wake  up  there!  Murder!" 

He  moved  one  lean  arm  slowly  till  it  rested  over  his  throat 
shuddered  a  little,  and  turned  on  his  straw.  Then  the  arm  lefi 
his  throat,  the  hand  stretched  itself  out,  and  clutched  at  the  sid< 
toward  which  he  had  turned,  as  if  he  fancied  himself  to  b( 
grasping  at  the  edge  of  something.  I  saw  his  lips  move,  and  beni 
lower  over  him.  He  was  still  talking  in  his  sleep. 

"  Light  gray  eyes,"  he  murmured,  "and  a  droop  in  the  lefi 
eyelid;  flaxen  hair,  with  a  gold-yellow  streak  in  it — all  right 
mother — fair  white  arms,  with  a  down  on  them — little  lady'* 
hand,  with  a  reddish  look  under  the  finger  nails.  The  knife — al 
ways  the  cursed  knife — first  on  one  side,  then  on  the  other.  Aha 
you  she-devil,  where's  the  knife?" 

At  the  last  word  his  voice  rose,  and  he  grew  restless  on  a  sud 
den.  I  saw  him  shudder  on  the  straw;  his  withered  face  becami 
distorted,  and  he  threw  up  both  his  hands  with  a  quick  hyster 
ical  gasp.  They  struck  against  the  bottom  of  the  manger  unde: 
which  he  lay,  and  the  blow  Awakened  him.  I  had  just  time  t< 
slip  through  the  door  and  close  it  before  his  eyes  were  fairly 
open,  and  bis  senses  his  own  again. 

*'  Do  you  know  anything  about  that  man's  past  life  ?"  I  said  t< 
the  landlord. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  know  pretty  well  all  about  it,"  was  the  answer 
"  and  an  uncommon  queer  story  it  is.  Most  people  don't  belie v 
it.  It's  true,  though,  for  all  that.  Why  just  look  at  him,"  con 
tiaued  the  landlord,  opening  the  stable  door  again.  ' '  Poor  devU 


THE    QUEEN    OP   HEARTS.  63 

he's  so  worn  out  with  his  restless  nights  that  he's  dropped  back 

into  his  .^1.  <ly." 

>|     "Don't    \vake  him,"  I  said;  "I'm  in  no  hurry  for  the  gig. 
[Wait  till  tin*  other  man  comes  back  from  his  errand;  and,  in  the 
rlmeantime,  suppose  I  have  some  lunch  and  a  bottle  of  sherry, 
(land  suppose  you  come  and  help  me  to  get  through  it  ?" 
(I    The  heart  of  mine  host,  as  I  had  anticipated,  warmed  to  me 
[lover  his  own  wine.    He  soon  became  communicative  on  the  sub- 
of  the  man  asleep  in  the  stable,  and  by  little  and  little  I 
^Idrew  the  whole  story  out  of  him.     Extravagant  and  incredible 
ejas  the  events  must  appear  to  everybody,  they  are  related  here 
st  as  I  heard  them  and  just  as  they  happened. 


CHAPTER  II. 

SOME  years  ago  there  lived  in  the  suburbs  of  a  large  sea-port 
town  on  the  west  coast  of  England  a  man  in  humble  circum- 
stances, by  name  Isaac  Scatchard.     His  means  of  subsistence 
ire  derived  from  any  employment  that  he  could  get  as  an  ost- 
,  and  occasionally  when  times  went   well  with  him,  from 
nporary  engagements  in  service  as  stable-helper  in  private 
>uses.    Though  a  faithful,  steady,  and  honest  man,  he  got  on 
idly  in  his  calling.     His  ill  luck  was  proverbial  among  his 
bors.     He  was  always  missing  good  opportunities  by  no 
ault  of  his  own,  and  always  living  longest  in  service  with  ami- 
ible  people  who  were  not  punctual  payers  of  wages.     "  Unlucky 
1  was  his  nickname  in  his  own  neighborhood,  and  no  on*e 
u Id  say  that  he  did  not  richlv  deserve  it. 
"With  far  more  than  one  man's  fair  share  of  adversity  to  endure, 
saac  had  but  one  consolation  to  support  him,  and  that  was  of 
,he  dreariest  and  most  negative  kind.     He  had  no  wife  and  chil- 
Jren  to  increase  his  anxieties  and  add  to  the  bitterness  of  his 
various  failures  in  life.    It  might  have  been  from  mere  insensi- 
Dility,  or  it  might  have  been  from  generous  unwillingness  to 
nvolve  another  in  his  own  unlucky  destiny:  but  the  fact  undoubt- 
edly was,  that  he  bad  arrived  at  the  middle  term  of  life  without 
narrying,  and,  what  is  much  more  remarkable,  without  once 
exposing  himself,  from  eighteen  to  eight-and- thirty,  to  the  genial 
inputation  of  ever  having  had  a  sweetheart. 

When  he  was  out  of  service  he  lived  alone  with  his  widowed 

nother.     Mrs.  Scatchard  was  a  woman  above  the  averaj: 

ler  lowly  station  as  to  capacity  and  manners.     Sho  had  seen 

r  days,  as  the  j»li  but  she  never  referred  to  them  in 

he  presence  of  curious  visitors;  and,  though  perfectly  polite  to 

one., who  approached  her,  never  cultivated   any  intima- 

ies  among  her  neighbor-.     She  contrived  to  provide,  hardly 

'noii£h,  for  her  simple   wants   by  doing  rough  work  for  the 

ailors.  and  always  managed  to  keep  a  decent  home  for  her  son 

turn  to  whenever  his  ill-luck  drove  him  out  helpless  into  the 

Id. 

bleak  autumn,  when  Isaac  was  Y  on  fast  tov 

.  and  when  he  was,  as  usual,  out  of  place  through  no  fault 


64  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

of  his  own,  he  set  forth  from  his  mother's  cottage  on  a  long 
walk  inland  to  a  gentleman's  seat,  where  he  had  heard  that  a 
stable-keeper  was  required. 

It  wanted  then  but  two  days  of  his  birthday;  and  Mrs.  Scatch- 
ard,  with  her  usual  fondness,  made  him  promise,  before  he 
started,  that  he  would  be  back  in  time  to  keep  that  anniversary 
with  her,  in  as  festive  a  way  as  their  poor  means  would  allow. 
It  was  easy  for  him  to  comply  with  this  request,  even  supposing 
he  slept  a  night  each  way  on  the  road. 

He  was  to  start  from  home  on  Monday  morning,  and,  whether 
he  got  the  new  place  or  not,  he  was  to  be  back  for  his  birthday 
dinner  on  Wednesday  at  two  o'clock. 

Arriving  at  his  destination  too  late  on  the  Monday  night  to 
make  application  for  the  stable-keeper's  place,  he  slept  at  the 
village  inn,  and  in  good  time  on  the  Tuesday  morning  presented 
himself  at  the  gentleman's  house  to  fill  the  vacant  situation. 
Here  again  his  ill-luck  pursued  him  as  inexorably  as  ever.  The 
excellent  written  testimonials  to  his  character  which  he  was  able 
to  procure  availed  him  nothing;  his  long  walk  had  been  taken 
in  vain:  only  the  day  before  the  stable- helper's  place  had  been 
given  to  another  man. 

Isaac  accepted  this  new  disappointment  resignedly  and  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Naturally  slow  in  capacity,  he  had  the  blunt- 
ness  of  sensibility  and  phlegmatic  patience  of  disposition  which 
frequently  distinguish  men  with  sluggishly- working  mental 
powers.  He  thanked  the  gentleman's  steward  with  his  usual 
quiet  civility  for  granting  him  an  interview,  and  took  his  depart- 
ure with  no  appearance  of  unusual  depression  in  his  face  or 
manner. 

Before  starting  on  his  homeward  walk,  he  made  some  inquiries 
at  the  inn,  and  ascertained  that  he  might  save  a  few  miles  on 
his'  return  by  following  a  new  road.  Furnished  with  full  in- 
structions, several  times  repeated,  as  to  the  various  turnings  he 
was  to  take,  he  set  forth  on  his  homeward  journey,  and  walked 
on  all  day  with  only  one  stoppage  for  bread  and  cheese.  Just  as 
it  was  getting  toward  dark,  the  rain  came  on  and  the  wind  be- 
gan to  rise,  and  he  found  himself,  to  make  matters  worse,  in  a 
part  of  the  country  with  which  he  was  entirely  unacquainted, 
though  he  knew  himself  to  be  some  fifteen  miles  from  home. 
The  first  house  he  found  to  inquire  at  was  a  lonely  roadside  inn, 
standing  on  the  outskirts  of  a  thick  wood.  Solitary  as  the  place 
looked  it  was  welcome  to  a  lost  man  who  was  also  hungry, 
thirsty,  foot-sore,  and  wet.  The  landlord  was  civil,  and  respect- 
able-looking, and  the  price  he  asked  for  a  bed  was  reasonable 
enough.  Isaac  therefore  decided  on  stopping  comfortably  at 
the  inn  for  that  night.  . 

He  was  constitutionally  a  temperate  man.  His  supper  con 
sisted  of  two  rashers  of  bacon,  a  slice  of  home-made  bread,  and 
a  pint  of  ale.  He  did  not  go  to  bed  immediately  after  this  mod- 
erate meal,  but  sat  up  with  the  landlord,  talking  about  his  bac 
prospects  and  his  long  run  of  ill  luck,  and  diverging  from  thest 
topics  to  the  subject  of  horseflesh  and  racing.  Nothing  was 
said  either  by  himself,  his  host,  or  the  few  laborers  who  strayec 


KEN    OF    HEARTS.  65 

into  the  tap-room,  which  could,  in  the  slightest  degree,  excite 
(he  very  small  and  very  dull   imaginative  faculty   which  Isaac 

hard  p. 

At  a  little  after  eleven  the  house  was  closed.  Isaac  went 
round  with  the  landlord  and  held  the  candle  while  the  doors 
and  I  ,\ere  being  secured.  He  noticed  with 

i  of  tin;  holts  and  bars,  and  iron-sheathed  shut- 

"  You  see,  we  are  rather  lonely  here,"  said  the  landlord.    "  We 
have  had  any  attempts  made  to  break  in  yet,  but  it's  al- 
well  to  be  on  the  safe  side.     When  nobody  is  sleeping 
I  am  the  only  man  in  the  house.     My  wife  and  daughter 
are  timid,  and  the  servant-girl  takes  after  her  missuses.     An- 
other glass  of  ale  before  you  turn  in?    No!    Well,  how  such  a 
sober  man  as  you  come  to  be  out  of  place  is  more  than  I  can 
•out,  for  one.     Here's  where  you're  to  sleep.     You're  our 
only  lodger  to-night,  and  I  think  you'll  say  my  missus  has  done 
her  1).  ake  you  comfortable.     You're  quite  sure  you  won't 

have  another  glass  of  ale?    Very  well.     Good- night." 

It  was  half- past  eleven  by  the  clock  in  the  passage  as  they 
went  up-stairs  to  the  bedroom,  the  window  of  which  looked  on 
ie  wood  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

ic  locked  the  door,  set  his  candle  on  the  chest  of  drawers, 
and  wearily  got  ready  for  bed.  The  bleak  autumn  wind  was 
still  blowing,  and  the  solemn  monotonous,  surging  moan  of  it  in 
the  wood  was  dreary  and  awful  to  hear  through  the  night- 
silence.  Isaac  felt  strangely  wakeful.  He  resolved,  as  he  lay 
down  in  bed,  to  keep  the  candle  alight  until  he  began  to  grow 
sleepy,  for  there  was  something  unendurably  depressing  in  the 
bare  idea  of  lying  awake  in  the  darkness,  listening  to  the  dis- 
inal,  ceaseless  moaning  of  the  wind  in  the  wood. 

Sleep  stole  on  him  before  he  was  aware  of  it.  His  eyes  closed, 
and  he  fell  off  insensibly  to  rest  without  having  so  much  as 
thought  of  extinguishing  the  candle. 

The  lii  tion    of    which   he  was  conscious  after  sink- 

ing into  slumber  was  a  strange  shivering  that  ran  through 
him  suddenly  from  head  to  foot,  and  a  dreadful  sinking  pain  at 
the  heart,  Mich  as  he  had  never  felt  before.  The  shivering  only 
disturbed  his  slumbers;  the  pain  woke  him  instantly.  In  one 
moment  lie  pa— ed  from  a  state  of  sleep  to  a  state  of  wakeful- 
ness — his  ide  open — his  mental  perceptions  cleared  on  a 
H'  a  miracle. 

The  candle  had  burnt  down  nearly  to  the  last  morsel  of  tallow, 
but  the,  top  of  the  unsniiHVd   wick  had  just    fallen  olf.  and  the 
light  in  the  little  room  was,  for  the  moment,  fair  and  full. 
Between  tb  f  his  bed  and  the  closed  door  there  stood  a 

with  a  knife  in  her  hand,  looking  at  him. 

less  with  terror,  but  he  did  not  lose  the 
if  his  faculties,  and    he  never   took  his 
tf  the  woman.     She  ^aid  not  a  word  as  they  stared  . 

_;an  to  move  slowly  toward  the  left- 
of  the  bed. 
His  eyes  f"llowed  her.    She  was  a  fab:,  fine  woman,  with  yel- 


66  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

lowish  flaxen  hair  and  light  gray  eyes,  with  a  droop  in  the  left 
eyelid.  He  noticed  those  things  and  fixed  them  on  his  mind 
before  she  was  round  at  the  side  of  the  bed.  Speechless,  with  no 
expression  in  her  face,  with  no  noise  following  her  footfall,  she 
came  closer  and  closer — stopped — and  slowly  raised  the  knife. 
He  laid  his  right  arm  over  his  throat  to  save  it;  but,  as  he  saw 
the  knife  coming  down,  threw  his  hand  across  the  bed  to  the 
right  side,  and  jerked  his  body  over  that  way  just  as  the  knife 
descended  on  the  mattress  within  an  inch  of  his  shoulder. 

Hip  eyes  fixed  on  her  arm  and  hand  as  she  slowly  drew  her 
knife  out  of  the  bed;  a  white,  well-shaped  arm,  with  a  pretty 
down  lying  lightly  over  the  fair  skin — a  delicate  lady's  hand, 
with  the  crowning  beauty  of  a  pink  flush  under  and  round  the 
finger  nails. 

She  drew  the  knife  out,  and  -passed  back  again  slowly  to  the 
foot  of  the  bed;  stopped  there  for  a  moment  looking  at  him; 
then  came  on — still  speechless,  still  with  no  expression  on  the 
blank,  beautiful  face,  still  with  no  sound  following  the  stealthy 
footfalls— came  on  to  the  right  side  of  the  bed,  where  he  now 
lay. 

As  she  approached  she  raised  the  knife  again,  and  he  drew 
himself  away  to  the  left  side.  She  struck,  as  before,  right  into 
the  mattress,  with  a  deliberate,  perpendicularly -down  ward  action 
of  the  arm.  This  time  his  eyes  wandered  from  her  to  the  knife. 
It  was  like  the  large  clasp-knives  which  he  had  often  seen  labor- 
ing men  use  to  cut  their  bread  and  bacon  with.  Her  delicate 
little  fingers  did  not  conceal  more  than  two-thirds  of  the  handle; 
he  noticed  that  it  was  made  of  buckhorn,  clean  and  shining,  as 
the  blade  was,  and  looking  like  new. 

For  the  second  time  she  drew  the  knife  out,  concealed  it  in  the 
wide  sleeve  of  her  gown,  then  stopped  by  the  bedside,  watching 
him.  For  an  instant  he  saw  her  standing  in  that  position,  then 
the  wick  of  the  spent  candle  fell  over  into  the  socket;  the  flame 
diminished  to  a  little  blue  point,  and  the  room  grew  dark. 

A  moment,  or  less,  if  possible,  passed  so,  and  then  the  wick 
flamed  up,  smokingly  for  the  last  time.  Hie  eyes  were  still 
looking  eagerly  over  the  right-hand  side  of  the  bed  when  the 
final  flash  of  light  came,  but  they  discerned  nothing.  The  fair' 
woman  with  the  knife  was  gone. 

The  conviction  that  he  was  alone  again  weakened  the  hold  of 
the  terror  that  had  struck  him  dumb  up  to  this  time.  The  pre- 
ternatural sharpness  which  the  very  intensity  of  his  panic  had 
mysteriously  imparted  to  bis  faculties  left  them  suddenly.  His 
brain  grew  confused — his  heart  beat  wildly — his  ears  opened  for 
the  first  time  since  the  appearance  of  the  woman  to  a  sense  of 
the  woful  ceaseless  moaning  of  the  wind  among  the  trees. 
With  the  dreadful  conviction  of  the  reality  of  what  he  had  seen 
still  strong  within  him,  he  leaped  out  of  bed,  and  screaming 
"  Murder!  Wake  up  there!  wake  up!"  dashed  headlong  through 
the  darkness  to  the  door. 

It  was  fast  locked,  exactly  as  he  had  left  it  on  going  to  bed. 

His  cries  on  starting  up  had  alarmed  the  house.  He  heard  the 
terrified,  confused  exclamations  of  women;  he  saw  the  master 


THE    QUEEN    OF  67 

of  the  house  approaching  along  the  passage  with  his  burning 
i  candle  in  OIK*  hand  and  his  pun  in  tin.-  other, 
.cd  the  landlord,   breathlessly. 

Isaac  could  only  answer  in  a  whisper.     "  A   woman,  with  a 
in  her  hand,''  he  gasped  out.     "  In  my  room— a  fair,  yel- 
ow-haired  woman;  she  jobbed  at  me  with  the  knife  twice 
over." 

The  landlord's  pale  cheeks  grew  paler.     He  looked  at  Isaac 
jagerly  by  the  flickering  light  Of  his  candle,  and  his  face  began 
t  red  again;  his  voice  altered,  too,  as  well  as  his  complexion. 
>he  seems  to  have  missed  you  twice,"  he  said. 
11 1  dodged  the  knife  as  it  came  down,"  Isaac  went  on,  in  the 
same  scared  whisper.     "  It  struck  the  bed  each  time." 

The  landlord  took  his  candle  into  the  bedroom  immediately. 
fn  less  than  a  minute  he  came  out  again  into  the  passage  in  a 
violent  passion. 

"The  devil  fly  away  with  you  and  your  woman  with  the 
cnife!  There  isn't  a  mark  in  the  bedclothes  anywhere.  What 
do  you  mean  bv  coming  into  a  man's  place,  and  frightening  his 
family  out  of  tneir  wits  about  a  dream  ?" 

I'll  leave  your  house,"  said  Isaac,  faintly.     "  Better  out  on 
;he  road,  in  rain  and  dark,  on  my  road  home,  than  back  again 
n  that  room,  after  what  I've  seen  in  it.    Lend  me  a  light  to  get 
my  clothes  by,  and  tell  me  what  I'm  to  pay." 

"Pay!"  cried  the  landlord,  leading  the  way  with  his  light 
sulkily  into  the  bedroom.  "You'll  find  your  score  on  the  slate 
vhen  you  go  down-stairs.  I  wouldn't  have  taken  you  in  for  all 
money  you've  got  about  you  if  I'd  known  your  dreaming, 
•hing  ways  beforehand.  Look  at  the  bed.  Where's  the 
•in  of  a  knife  in  it.  Look  at  the  window — is  the  lock  bursted  ? 
lx)ok  at  the  door  (which  I  heard  you  fasten  yourself) — is  it  broke 
n?  A  murdering  woman  with  a  knife  in  my  house!  You 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself!" 

•ic  answered  not  a  word.    He  huddled  on  his  clothes,  and 
hen  went  down-stairs  together. 

"Nigh  on  twenty  minutes  past  two!"  said  the  landlord,  as 
hey  i>as>i>d  a  clock.  "  A  nice  time  in  the  morning  to  frighten 
lonest  people  out  of  their  wits!*' 

ic  paid  his  bill,  and  the  landlord  let  him  out  at  the  front 
ioor,  asking,  with  a  grin  of  contempt,  as  he  undid  the  strong 
'astenings,  whether  "the  murdering  woman  got  in  that  v 
They   parted  without  a  word  on  either  side.     The  rain 

I,  but  the  night  was  dark,  and  the  wind  bleaker  than  ever. 
Little  did  the  darkness  or  the  cold,  or  the  uncertainty  about  the 
home  matter  to  Isaac.     If  he  had  been  turned  out  into  the 
s  in  a  thunder-storm,  it  would   have  Kvn  a  relief  after 
ivhat  he  had  suffered  in  the  bedroom  of  the  inn. 

What  was  the  fair  woman  with  the  knife?     T  ure  of  a 

iream,  or  that  other  creature   from   the  unknown  world  called 
he  name  of  ghost?     lh- could  make  nothing  of 
he  mystery — had  made  nothing  of  it.  e\en  when  it  was  midday 
m    V,  lay,  and  when  In-  sto»d.  a'  many  t 

his  road,  once  more  on  the  doorstep  of  his  home, 


68  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

CHAPTER  III. 

His  mother  came  out  eagerly  to  receive  him.  His  face  told 
her  in  a  moment  that  something  was  wrong. 

"  I've  lost  the  place;  but  that's  my  luck.  I  dreamed  an  il 
dream  last  night,  mother — or  maybe  I  saw  a  ghost.  Take  il 
either  way,  it  scared  me  out  of  my  senses,  and  I  am  not  my  owr 
man  again  yet." 

"  Isaac,  your  face  frightens  me.  Come  in  to  the  fire — come 
in,  and  tell  mother  all  about  it." 

He  was  as  anxious  to  tell  as  she  was  to  hear;  for  it  had  beer 
his  hope,  all  the  way  home,  that  his  mother,  with  her  quickei 
capacity  and  superior  knowledge,  might  be  able  to  throw  som< 
light  on  the  mystery  which  he  could  not  clear  up  for  himself 
His  memory  of  the  dream  was  still  mechanically  vivid,  thougl 
his  thoughts  were  entirely  confuted  by  it. 

His  mother's  face  grew  paler  and  paler  as  he  went  on.  Sh< 
never  interrupted  him  by  so  much  as  a  single  word;  but  whei 
he  had  done,  she  moved  her  chair  close  to  his,  put  her  arm* 
around  his  neck,  and  said  to  him: 

"Isaac,  you  dreamed  your  ill  dream  on  this  Wednesday 
morning.  What  time  was  it  when  you  saw  the  fair  womai 
with  the  knife  in  her  hand  ?'' 

Isaac  reflected  on  what  the  landlord  had  said  when  they  ha< 
passed  by  the  clock  on  his  leaving  the  inn;  allowed  as  nearly  a 
he  could  for  the  time  that  must  have  elapsed  between  the  un 
locking  of  his  bedroom  door  and  the  paying  of  his  bill  just  befon 
going  away,  and  answered: 

*'  Somewhere  about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

His  mother  suddenly  quitted  her  hold  of  his  neck,  and  strucl 
her  hands  together  with  a  gesture  of  despair." 

"This  Wednesday  is  your  birthday,  Isaac,  and  two  o'clock  ii 
the  morning  was  the  time  when  you  were  born. 

Isaac's  capacities  were  not  quick  enough  to  catch  the  infectioi 
of  his  mother's  superstitious  dread.  He  was  amazed,  and  a  littl 
startled  also,  when  she  suddenly  rose  from  her  chair,  opened  he 
old  writing-desk,  took  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  and  then  said  to  him 

"  Your  memory  is  but  a  poor*  one,  Isaac,  and,  now  I'm  an  ol 
woman,  mine's  not  much  better.  I  want  all  about  this  drear 
of  yours  to  be  as  well  known  to  both  of  us,  years  hence,  as  it  i 
now.  Tell  me  over  again  all  you  told  me  a  minute  ago,  whe 
you  spoke  of  what  the  woman  with  the  knife  looked  like." 

Isaac  obeyed,  and  marveled  much  as  he  saw  his  mother  car< 
fully  set  down  on  paper  the  very  words  that  he  was  saying. 

"  Light  gray  eyes,"  she  wrote,  as  they  came  to  the  descripth 
part,  "  with  a  droop  in  the  left  eyelid;  flaxen  hair,  with  a  golc 
yellow  streak  in  it;  white  arms,  with  a  down  upon  them;  litti 
lady's  band,  with  a  reddish  look  about  the  finger  nails;  clas] 
knife  with  a  buck-horn  handle,  that  seemed  as  good  as  new 
To  these  particulars  Mrs.  Scatchard  added  the  year,  month,  da 
of  the  week,  and  time  in  the  morning  when  the  woman  of  tl 
dream  appeared  to  her  son.  She  then  locked  up  the  paper  car 
fully  in  the  writing-desk. 


V    OF  ttd 

Neither  on  that  -r  on  any  day  after  could  her  son  induce 

>irn  to  tin-  matter  <>('  tin-  dream.      She  obstinat 

herself,  and  even  refused  to  refer  again 

o  tlie  paper  in  her  writing-desk.     Ere  long  Isaac  grew  weary  of 
.ike  her  break   her  resolute  silence;  and  time, 
wind  or  later  out  all  things,  gradually  wore 

the  impression  produced  on  him  by  the  dream.     He  be^an  by 
hinkingof  it  carelessly,  and  he  ended  by  not  thinking  of  it  at  all. 
The  result  was  the  more  easily  brought  about  by  the  advent  of 
•:ome  important  changes  for  the  better  in  his  prospects  which 
•ommeneed  not  long  after  his  terrible  night's  experience  at  the 
nn.    He  reaped  at  last  the  reward  of  his  long  and  patient  suffer- 
under  adversity  by  getting  an  excellent  place,  keeping  it  for 
sev  s,  and  leaving  it  on  the  death  of  his  master,  not  only 

with  an  excellent  character,  but  also  with  a  comfortable  annuity 
)equeathed  to  him  as  a  reward  for  saving  his  mistress'  life  in  a 
riage  accident.  Thus  it  happened  that  Isaac  Scatchard  re- 
turned to  his  old  mother,  seven  years  after  the  time  of  the  dream 
t  the  inn,  with  an  annual  sum  of  money  at  his  dispo'sal  suffi- 
cient to  keep  them  both  in  ease  and  independence  for  the  rest  of 
their  lives. 

The  mother,  whose  health  had  been  bad  of  late  years,  profited  so 
much  by  the  care  bestowed  on  her  and  by  freedom  from  money 
anxieties,  that  when  Isaac's  birthday  came  round  she  was  able 
X)  sit  up  comfortably  at  table  and  dine  with  him. 

On  that  day,  asj  the  evening  drew  on,  Mrs.  Scatchard  discov- 
ered that  a  bottle  of  tonic  medicine  which  she  was  accustomed 
:o  take,  and  in  which  she  had  fancied  that  a  dose  or  more  was 
still  left,  happened  to  be  empty.  Isaac  immediately  volunteered 
;o  go  to  the  chemist's  and  get  it  filled  again.  It  was  as  rainy  and 
>leak  an  autumn  night  as  on  the  memorable  past  occasion  when 
ic  lost  his  way  and  slept  at  the  roadside  inn. 
On  going  into  the  chemist's  shop  he  was  passed  hurriedly  by  a 
-i  1\  -dressed  woman  coming  out  of  it.  The  glimpse  he  had  of 
tier  face  struck  him,  and  he  looked  back  after  her  as  she 
^  ;he  door-steps. 

"  You're  noticing  that  woman?"  said  the  chemist's  apprentice 
behind  the  counter.     "  It's  my  opinion  there's  something  wrong 
with  her.    She's  been  asking  for  laudanum  to  put  to  a  bad  tooth. 
Master's  out  for  half  an  hour,  and  I  told  her  I  wasn't  allowed  to 
sell  poison  to  strangers  in  his  absence.     She  laughed  in  a  queer 
and  said  she  would  come  back  in  half  an  hour.     If  sh« 
ister  to  serve  her,  I  think  she'll  be  disappointed.     1 
nicide.  sir,  if  ever  there  was  one  y. 

These  words  added  immeasurably  to  the  -udden  interest  in  the 
woman  which  Isaac  had  felt  at  the  first  sight  of  her  face.     . 
he  had  ^ot  the  medicine- bottle  tilled   he  looked  about  anxiously 
for  I  oon  as  he  was  out  in  the  street.     E  walking 

slowly  up  and  down  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road.     \Vitl    his 
•ry  much  to  his  own  surprise,  beating  fast;  Isaac  crossed 
over  and  spoke  to  her. 

He  asked  if  she  \\a>  in  any  di-  pointed  to  her  torn 

shawl,  her  scanty  dress,  her  crushed,  dirty  bonnet;  then  moved 


70  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

under  a  lamp  so  as  to  let  the  light  fall  on  her  stern,  pale,  but  still 
most  beautiful  face. 

"  I  look  like  a  comfortable,  happy  woman,  don't  I "  she  said, 
with  a  bitter  laugh. 

She  spoke  with  a  purity  of  intonation  which  Isaac  had  never 
heard  before  from  other  lips  than  ladies'  lips.  Her  slightest  ac- 
tions seemed  to  have  the  easy,  negligent  grace  of  a  thorough- 
bred woman.  Her  skin,  for  all  its  poverty-stricken  paleness, 
was  as  delicate  as  if  her  life  had  been  passed  in  the  enjoyment 
of  every  social  comfort  that  wealth  can  purchase.  Even  her 
small,  finely- shaped  hands,  gloveless  as  they  were,  had  not  lost 
their  whiteness. 

Little  by  little,  in  answer  to  his  questions,  the  sad  story  of  the 
woman  came  out.  There  is  no  need  to  relate  it  here:  it  is  told 
over  and  over  again  in  police  reports  and  paragraphs  about 
attempted  suicides. 

"  My  name  is  Rebecca  Murdoch,"  said  the  woman,  as  she 
ended.  ^  I  have  ninepence  left,  and  I  thought  of  spending  it  at 
the  chemist's  over  the  way  in  securing  a  passage  to  the  other 
world.  Whatever  it  is,  it  can't  be  worse  to  me  than  this,  so 
why  should  I  stop  here  ?" 

Besides  the  natural  compassion  and  sadness  moved  in  his 
heart  by  what  he  heard,  Isaac  felt  within  him  some  mysterious 
influence  at  work  all  the  time  the  woman  was  speaking  which 
utterly  confused  his  ideas  and  almost  deprived  him  of  his  powers 
of  speech.  All  that  he  could  say  in  answer  to  her  last  reckless 
words  was  that  he  would  prevent  her  from  attempting  her  own 
life,  if  he  followed  her  about  all  night  to  do  it.  His  rough,] 
trembling  earnestness  seemed  to  impress  her. 

"  I  won't  occasion  you  that  trouble,''  she  answered,  when  hel 
repeated  his  threat.     "  You  have  given  me  a  fancy  for  living  bjj 
speaking  kindly  to  me.     No  need  for  the  mockery  of  protesta| 
tions  and  promises.    You  may  believe  me  without  them.    COON 
to  Fuller's  Meadow  to-morrow  at  twelve,  and  you  will  find  m<[ 
alive,  to  answer  for  myself — No! — no  money.     My  ninepenc< 
will  do  to  get  me  as  good  a  night's  lodging  as  I  want." 

She  nodded  and  left  him.     He  made  no  attempt  to  follow — 
felt  no  suspicion  that  she  was  deceiving  him. 

"  It's  strange,  but  I  can't  help  believing  her,"  he  said  to  hinoj 
self,  and  walked  away,  bewildered,  toward  home. 

On  entering  the  house  his  mind  was  still  so  completely  all 
sorbed  by  its  new  subject  of  interest  that  he  took  no  notice  c 
what  his  mother  was  doing  \vben  he  came  in  with  the  bottle  c 
medicine.     She  had  opened  her  old  writing-desk  in  his  absencn 
and  was  now  reading  a  paper  attentively  that  lay  inside  it.     Oj 
every  birthday  of  Isaac's  since  she  had  written  down  the  pa 
ticulars  of  his  dream  from  his  own  lips,  she  had  been  accu 
tomed  to  read  that  same  paper,  and  ponder  over  it  in  private. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  Fuller's  Meadow. 

He  had  done  only  right  in  believing  her  so  implicitly    She  w 
there,  punctual  to  a  minute,  to  answer  for  herself.    The  last-k  i 
faint  defenses  in  Isaac's  heart  against  the  fascination  which  j 
word  or  look  from  her  began  inscrutably  to  exercise  over  hi 


THE    QUEEN    OF  TS.  71 

sank  down  and  vanished  before  her  forever  on  that  memorable 
ing. 

When  a  man  previously  insensible  to  the  influence  of  woman 
forms  an  attachment  in  middle  life,  the  instances  are  rare  in- 
deed, let  the  warning  circumstances  be  what  they  may,  in  which 
be  is  found  capable  of  freeing  himself  from  the  tyranny  of  the 
new  ruling  passion.  The  charm  of  being  spoken  to  familiarly, 
fondly,  and  gratefully  by  a  woman  whose  language  and  manners 
still  retained  enough  of  their  early  refinement  to  hint  at  the  high 
I  station  that  she  had  lost,  would  have  been  a  dangerous 
luxury  to  a  man  of  Isaac's  rank  at  the  age  of  twenty.  But  it 
was  far  more  than  that — it  was  certain  ruin  to  him — now  thafc 
liis  heart  \\as  opening  unworthily  to  a  new  influence  at  that 
middle  time  of  life  when  strong  feelings  of  all  kinds,  once  im- 
planted, strike  root  most  stubbornly  in  a  man's  moral  nature. 
A  few  more  stolen  interviews  after  that  first  morning  in  Fuller's 
Meadow  completed  his  infatuation.  In  less  than  a  month  from 
the  time  when  he  first  met  her,  Isaac  Scatchard  had  consented 
to  give  Rebecca  Murdoch  a  new  interest  in  existence,  and  a 
chance  of  recovering  the  character  she  had  lost  by  promising  to 
make  her  his  wife. 

She  had  taken  possession,  not  of  his  passions  only,  but  of  his 
faculties  as  well.  All  the  mind  he  had  he  put  into  her  keeping. 
She  directed  him  on  every  point — even  instructing  him  how  to 
break  the  news  of  his  approaching  marriage  in  the  safest  man- 
ner to  his  mother. 

"If  you  tell  her  how  you  met  me  and  who  I  am  at  first,"  said 
the  cunning  woman,  "  she  will  move  heaven  and  earth  to  prevent 
our  marriage.  Say  I  am  the  sister  of  one  of  your  fellow -servants 
— ask  her  to  see  me  before  you  go  into  any  more  particulars — 
and  leave  it  to  me  to  do  the  rest.  I  mean  to  make  her  love  me 
next  best  to  you,  Isaac,  before  she  knows  anything  of  who  I 
really  am." 

The  motive  of  the  deceit  was  sufficient  to  sanctify  it  to  Isaac. 
The  stratagem  proposed  relieved  him  of  his  one  great  anxiety, 
and  quieted  his  uneasy  conscience  on  the  subject  of  his 
mother.  Still,  there  was  something  wanting  to  perfect  his  hap- 
s  something  that  he  could  not  realize,  something  mysteri- 
ously untraeeable,  and  yet  something  that  perpetually  made 
felt:  not  when  he  was  absent  from  Rebecca  Murdoch,  but, 
straii  v,  \vhen  he  was  actually  in  her  presence!  She  was 

kiudi  If  with  him.  She  never  made  him  feel  his  inferior 

1  inferior  manners.  She  showed  the  sweetest  anx- 
iety to  |>le:i-e  him  in  the  smallest  trifles;  but,  in  spite  of  all  these, 
attractions,  lie  never  could  feel  quite  at  hi  *  ith  her.  At 

their  tirst  meeting,  there  had  mingled  with  his  admiration,  when 
he  looked  in  ht  a  faint,  involuntary  feeling  of  doubt 

•tier  that  face  was  entireh  stran.-e  to  him.  No  after  famil- 
iarity had  the  slightest  ejlect  on  this  Inexplicable,  wearisome  un- 
certain! 

Concealing  the  truth  as  he  bad  been  directed,  he  announced 

engagement    i>reei|>itatfly   and    confusedly  to  his 

mother  ou  the  day  when  he  cont  i.     Poor  Mrs.  Scatchard 


72  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

showed  her  perfect  confidence  in  her  son  by  flinging  her  arms 
round  his  neck,  and  giving  him  joy  of  having  found  at  last,  in 
the  sister  of  one  of  his  fellow-servants,  a  woman  to  comfort  and 
care  for  him  after  his  mother  was  gone.  She  was  all  eagerness 
to  see  the  woman  of  her  son's  choice,  and  the  next  day  was  fixed 
for  the  introduction. 

It  was  a  bright  sunny  morning,  and  the  little  cottage  parlor 
was  full  of  light  as  Mrs.  Scatchard,  happy  and  expectant,  dressed 
for  the  occasion  in  her  Sunday  gown,  sat  waiting  for  her  son  and 
her  future  daughter-in-law. 

Punctual  to  the  appointed  time,  Isaac  hurriedly  and  nervously 
led  his  promised  wife  into  the  room.  His  mother  rose  to  receive 
her — advanced  a  few  steps  smiling — looked  Rebecca  full  in  the 
eyes,  and  suddenly  stopped.  Her  face,  which  had  been  flushed 
the  moment  before,  turned  white  in  an  instant;  her  eyes  lost 
their  expression  of  softness  and  kindness,  and  assumed  a  blank 
look  of  terror;  her  outstretched  hands  fell  to  her  sides,  and  she 
staggered  back  a  few  steps  with  a  low  cry  to  her  son. 

"  Isaac,"  she  whispered,  clutching  him  fast  by  the  arm  when 
he  asked  her  alarmedly  if  she  was  taken  ill,  "Isaac,  does  that 
woman's  face  remind  you  of  nothing  ?" 

Before  he  could  answer — before  he  could  look  round  to  where 
Rebecca  stood,  astonished  and  angered  by  her  reception,  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room,  his  mother  pointed  impatiently  to  her 
writing-desk,  and  gave  him  the  key. 

M  Open  it,"  she  said,  in  a  quick,  breathless  whisper. 

"  What  does  this  mean  ?  Why  am  I  treated  as  if  I  had  no  bus- 
iness here  ?  Does  your  mother  want  to  insult  me  ?"  asked  Re- 
becca, angrily. 

"  Open  it,  and  give  me  the  paper  in  the  left-hand  drawer. 
Quick!  quick,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  said  Mrs.  Scatchard,  shrink- 
ing further  back  in  terror. 

Isaac  gave  her  the  paper.  She  looked  it  over  eagerly  for  a 
moment,  then  followed  Rebecca,  who  was  now  turning  away 
haughtily  to  leave  the  room,  and  caught  her  by  the  shoulder- 
abruptly  raised  the  long,  loose  sleeve  of  her  gown,  and  glanced 
at  the  hand  and  arm.  Something  like  fear  began  to  steal  over 
the  angry  expression  of  Rebecca's  face  as  she  shook  herself  free 
from  the  old  wroman's  grasp.  "  Mad!"  she  said  to  herself;  "  and 
Isaac  never  told  me."  With  these  few  words  she  left  the  room; 

Isaac  was  hastening  after  her  when  his  mother  turned  and 
stopped  his  further  progress.  It  wrung  his  heart  to  see  the  mis- 
ery and  terror  in  her  face  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"  Light  gray  eyes,"  she  said  in  low,  mournful,  awe-struck 
tones,  pointing  toward  the  open  door;  "a  droop  in  the  left  eye- 
lid; flaxen  hair,  with  a  gold-yellow  streak  in  it;  white  arms,  with  a 
down  upon  them;  little  lady's  hand, "with  a  reddish  look  under  the 
finger  nails — The  Dream-Woman,  fsaaCjjthe  Dream- Woman!" 

That  faint  cleaving  doubt  which  he  had  never  been  able  to 
shake  off  in  Rebecca  Murdoch's  presence  was  fatally  set  at  rest 
forever.  He  luid  seen  her  face,  then,  before — seven  years  before, 
on  his  birthday,  in  the  bedroom  of  the  lonely  inn, 


THE  V    OF    7/7  73 

"  Be  warned !  oh.  my  son,  bo  warn 
and  do  you  stop  with  m 

lething  darkened  tlio  parlor  window  rt  were 

said.      A  Hidden  chill  ran  through  him.  and  he  glan  long 

at    the    shadow.     Rebecca  Murdoch   had   come  hack.     She 

ing  in  curiously  at  them  over  the  low  window-blind. 
••  I  h:ive  promised   to  marry,  mother,"  lie  said,  "and  marry  T 
must." 

The  a  into  his  eyes  as  he  spoke  and  dimmed  his 

hut  he  could  just  discern  the  fatal  face  outside  moving 

ain  from  the  window, 
mother's  head  sank  lower. 
\re  you  faint  V  he  whispered. 
"  Broken-hearted,  Isaac." 

stooped  down  and  kissed  her.  The  shadow,  as  he  did  so, 
returned  to  the  window,  and  the  fatal  face  peered  in  curiously 
once  more. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THREE  weeks  after  that  day  Isaac  and  Rebecca  were  man  and 
wife.  All  that  was  hopelessly  dogged  and  stubborn  in  the  man's 
moral  nature  seemed  to  have  closed  round  his  fatal  passion,  and 
to  have  fixed  it  unassailably  in  his  heart. 

After  that  first  interview  in  the  cottage  parlor  no  considera- 
tion would  induce  Mrs.  Scatchard  to  see  her  son's  wife  again, 
or  even  to  talk  of  her  when  Isaac  tried  hard  to  plead  her  cause 
after  their  marriage. 

This  course  of  conduct  was  not  in  any  degree  occasioned  by  a 

very  of  the  degradation  in  which  Rebecca  had  lived.    There 

no  question  of  that  between  mother  and  son.     There  was 

r\o  question  of  anything  but  the  fearfully  exact  resemblance 

between   the  living,  breathing  woman,  and  the  sp«  >man 

J  dream. 

i  her  side,  neither  felt  nor  expressed  the  si  i.^: 
\v  at  the  estrangement  between  herself  and  her  mother-in- 
law,  lor  the  sake  of  peace,  had  never  contradicted  her 
tirst  idea  that  age  and  long  illness  had  affected  Mrs.  Scatchard's 
mind.  He  even  allowed  his  wife  to  upbraid  him  for  not  having 
confessed  this  to  her  at  the  time  of  their  marriage  >  icnt, 
rather  than  risk  anything  by  hinting  at  the  truth.  The  sacrifice 
of  Ms  integrity  before  bis  one  all-ma  delusiot  !  but 
a  small  tiling,  and  cost  his  cons  little  after  ; 

he  had  already  made. 

The  time  of  waking  from  this  delusion— the  cruel  and   rueful 

-was  not  far  oil'.    After  some  quiet  months  of  married  life, 

as  the  summer  \va-  ending,  and  the  year  was  get  tit  vvard 

the  month  of  his  birthday  found   his  wife  alt-  ward 

him.    Bhe grew  sullen  and  contemptuous;  -he  i  :cquaint- 

kind  in  defiance  of  hi-  •  ions. 

mm.-uids:  and.  worst  of  all,  she  learned, 

ere  long,  aft-  h  difference  with  her  husband.  !<• 

the  deadly  self-oblivion  of  drink.     Little  by  little,  after  the  first 


74  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

miserable  discovery  that  his  wife  was  keeping  company  witl 
drunkards,  the  shocking  certainty  forced  itself  on  Isaac  that  sh< 
had  grown  to  be  a  drunkard  herself. 

He  had  been  in  a  sadly  despondent  state  for  some  time  befon 
the  occurrence  of  these  domestic  calamities.  His  mother'! 
^health,  as  he  could  but  too  plainly  discern  every  time  he  went  t< 
see  her  at  the  cottage,  was  failing  fast,  and  he  upbraided  him 
self  in  secret  as  the  cause  of  the  bodily  and  mental  suffering  she 
endured.  When  to  bis  remorse  on  his  mother's  account  was 
added  the  shame  and  misery  occasioned  by  the  discovery  of  hi* 
wife's  degradation,  he  sank  under  the  double  trial — his  face  be 
gan  to  alter  fast,  and  he  looked  what  he  was,  a  spirit-broker 
man. 

His  mother,  still  struggling  bravely  against  the  illness  thai 
was  hurrying  her  to  the  grave,  was  the  first  to  notice  the  sac 
alteration  in  him,  and  the  first  to  hear  of  his  last  worst  troubk 
with  his  wife.  She  could  only  weep  bitterly  on  the  day  wher 
he  made  his  humiliating  confession,  but  on  the  next  occasior 
when  he  went  to  see  her  she  had  taken  a  resolution  in  referenc( 
to  his  domestic  afflictions  which  astonished  and  even  alarmec 
him.  He  found  her  dressed  to  go  out,  and  on  asking  the  roasor 
received  this  answer: 

"  I  am  not  long  for  this  world,  Isaac,"  she  said,  "  and  I  shal 
not  feel  easy  on  my  death-bed  unless  I  have  done  my  best  to  the 
last  to  make  my  son  happy.  I  mean  to  put  my  own  fears  anc 
my  own  feelings  out  of  the  question,  and  to  go  with  you  to  youi 
wife,  and  try  what  I  can  do  to  reclaim  her.  Give  me  your  arm, 
Isaac,  and  let  me  do  the  last  thing  I  can  in  this  world  to  help  mj 
son  before  it  is  too  late." 

He  could  not  disobey  her,  and  they  walked  together  slowly 
toward  his  miserable  home. 

It  was  only  one  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  they  reached  the 
cottage  where  he  lived.  It  was  their  dinner-hour,  and  RebeccE 
was  in  the  kitchen.  He  was  thus  able  to  take  his  mother  quietly 
into  the  parlor,  and  then  prepare  his  wife  for  the  interview.  She 
had  fortunately  drunk  but  little  at  that  early  hour,  and  she  was 
less  sullen  and  capricious  than  usual. 

He  returned  to  his  mother  with  his  mind  tolerably  at  ease 
His  wife  soon  followed  him  into  the  parlor,  and  the  meeting  be 
tween  her  and  Mrs.  Scatchard  passed  off  better  than  he  had  veut 
ured  to  anticipate,  though  he  observed  with  secret  apprehensior 
that  his  mother,  resolutely  as  she  controlled  herself  in  other  re- 
spects, could  not  look  his  wife  in  the  face  when  she  spoke  to  her, 
It  was  a  relief  to  him,  therefore,  when  Rebecca  began  to  lay  th« 
cloth. 

She  laid  the  cloth,  brought  in  the  bread-tray,  and  cut  a  slict 
from  the  loaf  for  her  husband,  then  returned  to  the  kitchen, 
At  that  moment,  Isaac,  still  anxiously  watching  his  mother, 
was  startled  by  seeing  the  same  ghastly  change  pass  over  hei 
face  which  had  altered  it  so  awfully  on  the  morning  when  Re 
becca  and  she  first  met.  Before  he  could  say  a  word,  she  wbis 
pered,  with  a  look  of  horror; 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  75 

"  Take  me  ba ok— home,  home  again,  Isaac.    Come  with  me, 
again." 

1  Ir  \\  as  afraid  to  ask  for  an  explanation;  he  could  only  sign  to 
her  to  be  silent,  and  help  her  quickly  to  the  door.     As 
passed  the  bread-tray  on  the  table  she  stopped  and  pointed  to  it. 

••  Did  you  see  what  your  wife  cut  your  bread  with?"  she 
i,  iu  a  low  whisper. 

•uother— I  was  not  noticing— what  was  it?" 

"  Lookl" 

He  did  look.  A  new  clasp-knife,  with  a  buck-horn  handle, 
lay  with  the  loaf  in  the  bread-tray.  He  stretched  out  his  hand 
shudderingly  to  possess  himself  of  it;  but,  at  the  same  time, 
there  was  a  noise  in  the  kitchen,  and  his  mother  caught  at  his 
arm. 

"  The  knife  of  the  dream!  Isaac,  I'm  faint  with  fear.  Take 
me  away  before  she  comes  back." 

He  was  hardly  able  to  support  her.  The  visible,  tangible  real- 
f  the  knife  struck  him  with  a  panic,  and  utterly  destroyed 
any  faint  doubts  that  he  might  have  entertained  up  to  this  time 
in  relation  to  the  mysterious  dream-warning  of  nearly  eight 
years  before.  By  a  last  desperate  effort,  he  summoned  self-pos- 
session enough  to  help  his  mother  out  of  the  house — so  quietly 
that  the  "  Dream- woman  "  (he  thought  of  her  by  that  name  now) 
did  not  hear  them  departing  from  the  kitchen. 

"  Don't  go  back,  Isaac — don't  go  back!"  implored  Mrs.  Scatch- 
ard,  as  he  turned  to  go  away,  after  seeing  her  safely  seated  again 
in  her  own  room. 

"  I  must  get  the  knife,"  he  answered,  under  his  breath.  His 
mother  tried  to  stop  him  again,  but  he  hurried  out  without  an- 
other word.  . 

On  his  return  he  found  that  his  wife  had  discovered  their 
secret  departure  from  the  house.  She  had  been  drinking,  and 
was  in  a  fury  of  passion.  The  dinner  in  the  kitchen  was  flung 
under  the  grate;  the  cloth  was  dK  the  parlor  table.  Where  was 
the  knife? 

Unwisely,  he  asked  for  it.  She  was  only  too  glad  of  the  oppor- 
tunity of  irritating  him,  which  the  request  afforded  her.  "  He 
wanted  the  knife,  did  he?  Could  he  give  her  a  reason  why  ?  Nol 
Then  he  should  not  have  it — not  if  he  went  down  on  his  knees  to 
ask  for  it."  Further  recriminations  elicited  the  fact  that  she  had 
bought  it  a  bargain,  and  that  she  considered  it  her  own  es- 
il  property.  Isaac  saw  the  uselessness  of  attempting  to  get 
the  knife  by  fair  means,  and  determined  to  search  for  it. 
in  the  day,  in  secret.  The  search  was  unsuccessful.  Night 
on.  and  he  left  the  house  to  walk  about  the  streets.  He 
was  afraid  now  to  sleep  in  the  same  room  with  her. 

Three  weeks  passed.  Still  sullenly  enraged  with  him,  she 
would  not  give  up  the  knife;  and  still  that  fear  of  sleeping  in 
the  same  room  with  her  possessed  him.  He  walked  about  at 
night,  or  dozed  in  the  parlor,  or  sat  watching  by  his  mother's 
ide.  Before  the  expiration  of  the  first  week  in  the  new 
month  his  mother  died.  It  wanted  then  but  ten  days  of  her 
son's  birthday.  She  had  longed  to  live  till  that  anniversary. 


76  THE    QUEEN    OF   &EARTS. 

Isaac  was  present  at  her  death,  and  her  last  words  in  this  world 
were  addressed  to  him. 

"  Don't  go  back,  my  son,  don't  go  back!" 

He  was  obliged  to  go  back,  if  it  were  only  to  watch  hia  wife. 
Exasperated,  to  the  last  degree  by  his  distrust  of  her,  she  had  re- 
vengefully sought  to  add  a  sting  to  his  grief,  during  the  last 
days  of  his  mother's  illness,  by  declaring  that  she  would  assert 
her  right  to  attend  the  funeral.  In  spite  of  all  that  he  could  do 
or  say,  she  held  with  wicked  pertinacity  to  her  word,  and  on  the 
day  appointed  for  the  burial  forced  herself — inflamed  and 
shameless  with  drink — into  her  husband's  presence,  and  declared 
that  she  would  walk  in  the  funeral  procession  to  his  mother's 
grave. 

This  last  worst  outrage,  accompanied  by  all  that  was  most  in- 
sulting in  word  and  look,  maddened  him  for  the  moment.  He 
struck  her. 

The  instant  the  blow  was  dealt  he  repented  it.  She  crouched 
down,  silent,  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  and  eyed  him  steadily;  it 
was  a  look  that  cooled  his  hot  blood  and  made  him  tremble.  But 
there  was  no  time  now  to  think  of  a  means  of  making  atone- 
ment. Nothing  remained  but  to  risk  the  worst  till  the  funeral 
was  over.  There  was  but  one  way  of  making  sure  of  her.  He 
locked  her  into  her  bedroom. 

When  he  came  back  some  hours  after,  be  found  her  sitting, 
very  much  altered  in  look  and  bearing,  by  the  bedside,  with  a 
bundle  on  her  lap.  She  rose  and  faced  him  quietly,  and  spoke 
with  a  strange  stillness  in  her  voice,  a  strange  repose  in  her  eyes, 
a  strange  composure  in  her  manner. 

"  No  man  has  ever  struck  me  twice,"  she  said,  "and  my  hus- 
band shall  have  no  second  opportunity.  Set  the  door  open  and 
let  me  go.  From  this  day  forth  we  see  each  other  no  more." 

Before  he  could  answer  she  passed  him  and  left  the  room.  He 
saw  her  walk  away  up  the  street. 

Would  she  return  ?  • 

All  that  night  he  watched  and  waited,  but  no  footstep '  came 
near  the  house.  The  next  night,  overpowered  by  fatigue,  he 
lay  down  in  bed  in  his  clothes,  with  the  door  locked,  the  key  on 
the  table,  and  the  candle  burning.  His  slumber  was  not  dis- 
turbed. The  third  night,  the  fourth,  the  fifth,  the  sixth  passed,* 
and  nothing  happened.  He  lay  down  on  the  seventh,  still  in  his 
clothes,  still  with  the  door  locked,  the  key  on  the  table,  and  the 
candle  burning,  but  easier  in  his  mind. 

Easier  in  his  mind,  and  in  perfect  health  of  body  when  he  fell 
off  to  sleep.  But  his  rest  was  disturbed.  He  woke  twice  with- 
out any  sensation  of  uneasiness.  But  the  third  time  it  was  that 
never-to-be-forgotten  shivering  of  the  night  at  the  lonely  inn, 
that  dreadful  sinking  pain  at  the  heart,  which  once  more 
aroused  him  in  an  instant. 

His  eyes  opened  toward  the  left-hand  side  of  the  bed,  and 
there  stood — 

The  Dream-Woman  again?  No!  his  wife;  the  living  reality, 
with  the  dream-specter's  face,  in  the  dream-specter's  attitude; 
the  fair  arm  up,  the  knife  clasped  in  the  delicate  white  hand. 


THE    QUEEN    OP  TS.  77 

sprung  upon  her  almost  at  the  instant  of  seeing  her,  and 

uickly  enough  to  prevent,  her   from    hiding  the  knife. 

\Vitl  ;    from  him— without  a  cry  from   <  pin- 

i    her  in  a  chair.     With  one  hand  he  felt  up  her  sleeve,  and 

then-,  where  tin-  Dream-Woman  had  hidden  the  kn if <•. 

liad  hidden  it— the  knife  with  the  buck-horn  handle,  that  looked 

Tn  t  lirof  that  fearful  moment  his  brain  was  steady,  his 

hear;  I m.     lie  looked  at  her  fixedly  with  the  knife  in  his 

id  these  last  words: 

"  You  told  me  we  should  see  each  other  no  more,  and  you  have 
come  back .     It  is  my  turn  now  to  go,  and  to  go  forever. 
that  we  shall  see  each  other  no  more,  and  my  word  shall  not  be 
broken." 

He  left  her,  and  set  forth  into  the  night.  There  was  a  bleak 
wind  abroad,  and  the  smell  of  recent  rain  was  in  the  air.  The 
distant  church-clocks  chimed  the  quarter  as  he  walked  rapidly 
beyond  the  last  houses  in  the  suburb.  He  asked  the  first  police- 
man he  met  what  hour  that  was  of  which  the  quarter-past  had 
just  struck. 

The  man  referred  sleepily  to  his  watch,  and  answered,  "Two 
o'clock."  Two  in  the  morning.  What  day  of  the  month  was 
this  day  that  had  just  begun  ?  He  reckoned  it  up  from  the  day 
of  his  mother's  funeral.  The  fatal  parallel  was  complete:  it  was 
his  birthday! 

Had  he  escaped  the  mortal  peril  which  his  dream  foretold  ?  or 
had  he  only  received  a  second  warning  ? 

As  that  ominous  doubt  forced  itself  on  his  mind,  he  stopped, 
reflected,  and  turned  back  again  toward  the  city.  He  was  still 
resolute  to  hold  to  his  word,  and  never  to  let  her  see  him  more; 
but  there  was  a  thought  now  in  his  mind  of  having  her  watched 
and  followed.  The  knife  was  in  his  possession;  the  world  was 
before  him;  but  a  new  distrust  of  her — a  vague,  unspeakable, 
superstitious  dread  had  overcome  him. 

•'  I  must  know  where  she  goes,  now  she  thinks  I  have  left 
he  said  to  himself,  as  he  stole  back  wearily  to  the  precincts 
of  Ms  hou-e. 

It  was  still  dark.     He  had  left  the  candle  burning  in  the  bed- 
chamber; but  when  he  looked  up  to  the  window  of  the  room  now, 
there  was  no  light  in  it.     He  crept  cautiously  to  the  house  door. 
••ing  away,  he  remembered  to  have  closed  it;  on  trying  it 
now,  lie  found  it  open. 

11.  waited  outside,  never  losing  sight  of  the  house,  till  day- 
light. Then  he  ventured  in-doors — listened,  and  heard  nothing 
—looked  into  kitchen,  scullery,  parlor,  and  found  nothing: 
went  up.  at  last,  into  the  bedroom — it  was  empty.  A  picklock 
H  the  tloor.  betraying  how  she  had  gained  entrance  in.  the 
night,  and  that  was  the,  only  trace  of  her. 

Whither  had  she  gone?    That  no  mortal   tongue  could  tell 
him.     The  darkness  had  covered   her   flight;  and  when  the  day 
no  man  could  say  where  the  light  found  h« 

ring  the  house  and  the  town  i  he  gave  instruc- 

tions to  a  friend  and  neighbor  to  sell  his  furniture  for  anything 


73  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

that  it  would  fetch,  and  apply  the  proceeds  to  employing  the 
police  to  trace  her.  The  directions  were  honestly  followed,  and 
the  money  was  all  spent,  but  the  inquiries  led  to  nothing.  The 
picklock  on  the  bedroom  floor  remained  the  one  last  useless  trace 

of  the  Dream- Woman. 

#  *  #  v-  *  *  * 

At  this  point  of  the  narrative  the  landlord  paused,  and,  turn- 
ing toward  the  window  of  the  room  in  which  we  were  sitting, 
looked  in  the  direction  of  the  stable-yard. 

"  So  far,"  he  said,  "  I  tell  you  what  was  told  to  me.  The  little 
that  remains  to  be  added  lies  within  my  own  experience.  Be- 
tween two  and  three  months  after  the  events  I  have  just  been 
relating,  Isaac  Scatchard  came  to  me,  withered  and  old-looking 
before  his  time,  just  as  you  saw  him  to-day.  He  had  his  testi- 
monials of  character  with  him,  and  he  asked  for  employment 
here.  Knowing  that  my  wife  and  he  were  distantly  related,  I 
gave  him  a  trial  in  consideration  of  that  relationship,  and  liked 
him  in  spite  of  his  queer  habits.  He  is  as  sober,  honest,  and  will- 
ing a  man  as  there  is  in  England.  As  for  his  restlessness  at 
night,  and  his  sleeping  away  his  leisure  time  in  the  day.  who  can 
wonder  at  it  after  hearing  his  story  ?  Besides,  he  never  objects 
to  being  roused  up  when  he's  wanted,  so  there's  not  much  incon- 
venience to  complain  of,  after  all." 

"  I  suppose  he  is  afraid  of  a  return  of  that  dreadful  dream,  and 
of  waking  out  of  it  in  the  dark  ?"  said  I. 

"  No,"  returned  the  landlord.  "  The  dream  comes  back  to  him 
so  often  that  he  has  got  to  bear  with  it  by  this  time  resignedly 
enough.  It's  his  wife  keeps  him  waking  at  night,  as  he  has  often 
told  me." 

"  What!    Has  she  never  been  heard  of  yet  ?" 

"  Never.  Isaac  himself  has  the  one  perpetual  thought  about 
her,  that  she  is  alive,  and  looking  for  him.  I  believe  he  wouldn't 
let  himself  drop  off  to  sleep  toward  two  in  the  morning  for  a 
king's  ransom.  Two  in  the  morning,  he  says,  is  the  time  she 
will  find  him,  one  of  these  days.  Two  in  the  morning  is  the 
time  all  the  year  round  when  he  likes  to  be  most  certain  that  he 
has  got  that  clasp-knife  safe  about  him.  He  does  not  mind  being 
alone  as  long  as  he  is  awake,  except  on  the  night  before  his  birth- 
day, when  he  firmly  believes  himself  to  be  in  peril  of  his  life. 
The  birthday  has  only  come  round  once  since  he  has  been  here, 
and  then  he  sat  up  along  with  the  night-porter.  '  She's  looking 
for  me.'  is  all  he  says  when  anybody  speaks  to  him  about  the 
one  anxiety  of  his  life;  '  she's  looking  for  me.'  He  may  be  right. 
She  may  be  looking  for  him.  Who  can  tell?" 

"Who  can  tell?"  said  I. 


THE  FOURTH  DAY. 

THE  sky  once  more  cloudy  and  threatening.  No  news  of 
George.  I  corrected  Morgan's  second  story  to  day;  numbered  it 
Seven,  and  added  it  to  our  stock. 

Undeterred  by  the  weather,  Miss  Jessie  set  off  this  morning  oil 


Til  V    OF 

the   longest    ride    she   had   yet   undertaken  had   heard — 

thn  t   my  hi  laborers,  I  believe—  ial 

existence,  in  this  nineteenth  century,  <»f  n«»  less  a  pers<  m 

a  V  <rd,  who  was  to  be  found  at  a  distant  farm 

beyond  the  limits  of  Owen's  property.     Tin-  pn>-pect  of  discov- 

•  •markable  relic  of  past  times  hurried  her  oil".  un< 
the  '  her  ragged  groom,  in  a  high  state  of  exciteim -nt. 

hear  the  venerable  man.     She  was  away  the  wh« 
.   and   for  the  first  time  since  her  visit  she  kept  us  waiting 

half  an  hour  for  dinner.    The  moment  we  all  sat  do- 
table,  she  informed  us,  to  Morgan's  great  delight,  that  t 

•is  a  rank  impostor. 

••  Why,  what  did  you  expect  to  see?"  I  asked. 
"A  Welsh  patriarch,   to  be  sure,  with  a  long  white  beard, 
flowing  robes,  and  a  harp  to  match,"  answered  Miss  Jessie. 
"  And  what  did  you  find  ?" 

"  A  highly  respectable  middle-aged  rustic;  a  smiling,  smoothly- 
shaven,  obliging  man,  dressed  in  a  blue  swallow-tailed  coat, 
with  brass  buttons,  and  exhibiting  his  bardic  legs  in  a  pair  of 
extremely  stout  and  comfortable  corduroy  trousers." 
"  But  he  sang  old  Welsh  songs,  surely  ?" 

"  Sang!  I'll  tell  you  what  he  did.  He  sat  down  on  a  Wind- 
sor chair,  without  a  harp;  he  put  his  hands  in  his  pockets, 
cleared  his  throat,  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  suddenly  burst 
into  a  series  of  the  shrillest  falsetto  screeches  I  ever  heard  in  my 
life.  My  own  private  opinion  is  that  he  was  suffering  from 
hydrophobia.  I  have  lost  all  belief,  henceforth  and  forever,  in 
bards— all  belief  in  everything,  in  short,  except  your  very  de- 

tful  stories,  and  this  remarkably  good  dinner." 
Ending  with  that  smart  double  fire  of  compliments  to  her 
hosts,  the  Queen  of  Hearts  honored  us  all  three  with  a  smile  of 
approval,  and  transferred  her  attention  to  her  knife  and  fork. 

The  Dumber  drawn  to-night  was  One.  On  examination  of 
the  Purple  Volume,  it  proved  to  be  my  turn  to  read  again. 

"Our  story  to-night,"  T  said,  ''contains  the   narrative  of  a 

very  remarkable  adventure  which  really  befell  me  when  I  was  a 

•ing  man.     At  the  time  of  my  life  wheu  these  events  happened 

1  was  dabbling  in  literature  when  I  ought  to  have  been  studying 

law,  and  traveling  on  the  Continent  when  I  ought  to  ha-. 

y  terms  at  Lincoln's  Inn.     At  the  outset  of  the  story, 
you  will  find  that  I  refer  to  the  county  in  which  I  lived  in 

nth.  and  to  a  neighboring  family  possessing  a  Iar<;e  estate  in 
it.  .unity  is  situated  in  a  part  of  England  far  aw; 

the  (lien  T  nd  that  family  is  therefore  not  to  be  ass< 

•with  any  present  or  former  neighbors  of  ours  in  this  part  of  the 
world."  * 

After  saying  these  n<  words  of  explanation  T  oj> 

the  first  page  and  l>egan  the  story  of  my  Own  Ad  .     I  ob- 

served that  my  audience  started  a  little  as  I  i  title,  which 

I  must  add.  hi  my  o\vn  defense,  h  id   been   almost  forced  on    my 
choice   by    the   peculiar    char  >f   the    narrative.     It   v 

"  MAD  MONKTON." 


80  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

BROTHER  GRIFFITH'S  STORY  OF  MAD  MONKTON. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  MonktoDS  of  Wincot  Abbey  bore  a  sad  character  for  want 
of  sociability,  in  our  county.  They  never  went  to  other 
people's  houses,  and,  excepting  my  father,  and  a  lady  and  her 
daughter  living  near  them,  never  received  anybody  under  their 
own  roof. 

Proud  as  they  all  certainly  were,  it  was  not  pride,  but  dread 
which  kept  them  thus  apart  from  their  neighbors.  The  family  had 
suffered  for  generations  past  from  the  horrible  affliction  of  heredi- 
tary insanity,  and  the  members  of  it  shrank  from  exposing  their 
calamity  to  others,  as  they  must  have  exposed  it  if  they  had  min- 
gled with  the  busy  little  world  around  them.  There  is  a  frightful 
story  of  crime  committed  in  past  times  by  two  of  the  Monktons, 
near  relatives,  from  which  the  first  appearance  of  the  insanity 
was  always  supposed  to  date,  but  it  is  needless  for  me  to  shock 
any  one  by  repeating  it.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  at  intervals 
almost  every  form  of  madness  appeared  in  the  family,  mono- 
mania being  the  most  frequent  manifestation  of  the  affliction 
among  them.  I  have  these  particulars,  and  one  or  two  yet  to 
be  related,  from  my  father. 

At  the  period  of  my  youth  but  three  of  the  Monktons  were 
left  at  the  Abbey — Mr.  and  Mrs.  Monkton,  and  their  only  child 
Alfred,  heir  to  the  property.  The  one  other  member  of  this, 
the  elder  branch  of  the  family,  who  was  then  alive,  was  Mr. 
Monkton's  younger  brother,  Stephen.  He  was  an  unmarried 
man,  possessing  a  fine  estate  in  Scotland;  but  he  lived  almost 
entirely  on  the  Continent,  and  bore  the  reputation  of  being  a 
shameless  profligate.  The  family  at  Wincot  held  almost  as  little 
communication  with  him  a?  with  their  neighbors. 

I  have  already  mentioned  my  father,  and  a  lady  and  her 
daughter,  as  the  only  privileged  people  who  were  admitted  into 
Wincot  Abbey. 

My  father  had  been  an  old  school  and  college  friend  of  Mr. 
Monkton,  and  accident  had  brought  them  so  much  together  in 
later  life  that  their  continued  intimacy  at  Wincot  was  quite  in- 
telligible. I  am  not  so  well  able  to  account  for  the  friendly 
terms  on  which  Mrs.  Elmslie  (the  lady  to  whom  I  have  alluded) 
lived  with  the  Monktons.  Her  late  husband  had  been  distantly 
related  to  Mrs.  Monkton,  and  my  father  was  her  daughter's 
guardian.  But  even  these  claims  to  friendship  and  regard  never 
seemed  to  me  strong  enough  to  explain  the  intimacy  between 
Mrs.  Elmslie  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  Abbey.  Intimate,  how- 
ever, they  certainly  were,  and  one  result  of  the  constant  inter- 
change of  visits  between  the  two  families  in  due  time  declared 
itself:  Mr.  Monkton's  son  and  Mrs.  Elmslie's  daughter  became 
attached  to  each  other. 

I  had  no  opportunities  of  seeing  much  of  the  young  lady;  I 
only  remember  her  at  that  time  as  a  delicate,  gentle,  lovable 
girl,  the  very  opposite  in  appearance,  and  apparently  in  charac- 


QUEEN    OF  81 

ter  also,  to  Alfred  Monkton.    But  perhaps  that  was  one  reason 

why  they  fell   in  love  with   each  other.     The  atta 
soon  .  and  \\  from  being  disapproved  b 

In   all  essential   points  except  th 
Klmslies  were  nearly  tin;  equals  of  the  M 

in  a  bride  was  of  no  eonsequenee  to  the  heir 

of  Wincot.     Alfred,  it  was  well  known,  would  succeed  to  thirty 
tin u  on  his  father's  death. 

Thus,  though  the  parents  on  both  sides  thought  the  y< 
•  t  old  enough  to  he  married  at  once,  they  saw  no  r« 
why  Ada  and  Alfred  should  not  be  engaged  to  each  other,  with 
the   understanding   that   they   should    be  united    when   young 
Moukton  came  of  age,  in  two  years'  time.     The  person  to  be 
i  in  the  matter,  after  the  parents,  was  ray  father,  in  his 
capacity  of  Ada's  guardian.     He  knew  that  the  family  misery 
:iown  itself  many  years  ago  in  Mrs.  Monkton,  who  was  her 
ind's  cousin.     The  /////c.s.v.  as  it  was  significantly  called,  had 
d  by  careful  treatment,  and  was  reported  to  have 
passed  away.     But  my  father  was  not  to  be  deceived.     He  knew 
\\  here  the  hereditary  taint  still  lurked;  he  viewed  with  horror 
the  bare  possibility  of  its  reappearing  one  day  in  the  childr 
iend's  only  daughter,  and  he  positively  refused  his  coi 
to  the  marriage  engagement. 

The  result  was  that  the  doors  of  the  Abbey  and  the  doors  of 
Mrs.  Elmslie's  house  were  closed  to  him.     This  suspension  of 
friendly  intercourse  had  lasted  but  a  very  short  time  when  Mrs. 
Monkton  died.     Her  husband,  who  was  fondly  attached  to  her, 
caught  a  violent  cold  while  attending  her  funeral.     The  cold  was 
ttled  on  his  lungs.     In  a  few  months'  time  he 
followed  his  wife  to  the  grave,  and  AKred  was  left  master  of  the 
grand  old  Abbey  and  the  fair  lands  that  spread  all  around  it. 
this  period  Mrs.  Klm>lie  had  the  indelicacy  to  endea\ 
id  time  to  procure  my  father's  consent  to  the  marriage  en- 
t.      He  refused  it  again  more  positively  than  before, 
than  a  year  pa».'d  away.     The  time  was  approachin:_ 
when  Alfred  would  i  I  returned  from  college  to  spend 

the  1'  ition  at  home,  and  made  some  advances  tow  a  rd  bet- 

iv    acquaintance    with    young    Monkton.       They    were 
evaded— certainly  with  perfect  politeness,  but  still  in  such  a 

•  prevent  me  from  offering  my  friendship  to  him  again. 
Any  mortification  that  I  might  have  felt  at  this  petty  repulse 
under  ordinary  eireumstaii'  1  from  my  mind  by 

the  occiirtvnrr  of  a  real  misfortune  m  our  household.     For 
months  paM  my  father's  health  bad  been  failing,  and.  just  at  the 
time  of  which  lam  now  writing,  bis  sons  had  t"  mourn  the  irrep- 
arable calamity  of  his  death. 

This  event,  thn  ue  informality  or  error  in  the  late  Mr. 

Elmslie's  will,  left  the  future  of  Ada'  her  mother's 

•  nsequence  was  theimn  ication  of  the 

man  i  .;agemrnt  to  which  my  fat  herb 

-  publicly  annoui)' 

intimai-  quainted 

with  the  reports  affecting  the   Monkton  family,   ventured  to 


82  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

mingle  with  their  formal  congratulations  one  or  two  significant 
references  to  the  late  Mrs.  Monkton,  and  some  searching  in- 
quiries as  to  the  disposition  of  her  son. 

Mrs.  Elmslie  always  met  these  polite  hints  with  one  bold  form 
of  answer.  She  first  admitted  the  existence  of  those  reports 
about  the  Monktons  which  her  friends  were  unwilling  to  specify 
distinctly,  and  then  declared  that  they  were  infamous  calum- 
nies. The  hereditary  taint  had  died  out  of  the  family  genera- 
tions back.  Alfred  was  the  best,  the  kindest,  the  sanest  of 
human  beings.  He  loved  study  and  retirement;  Ada  smypa- 
thized  with  his  tastes,  and  had  made  her  choice  unbiased;  if  any 
more  hints  were  dropped  about  sacrificing  her  by  her  marriage, 
those  hints  would  be  viewed  as  so  many  insults  to  her  mother, 
whose  affection  for  her  it  was  monstrous  to  call  in  question. 
This  way  of  talking  silenced  people,  but  did  not  convince  them. 
They  began  to  suspect,  what  was  indeed  the  actual  truth,  that 
Mrs.  Elmslie  was  a  selfish,  worldly,  grasping  woman,  who 
wanted  to  get  her  daughter  well  married,  and  cared  nothing  for 
consequences  as  long  a?  she  saw  Ada  mistress  of  the  greatest 
establishment  in  the  whole  county. 

It  seemed,  however,  as  if  there  was  some  fatality  at  work  to 
prevent  the  attainment  of  Mrs.  Elmslie's  great  object  in  life. 
Hardly  was  one  obstacle  to  the  ill-omened  marriage  removed  by 
my  father's  death  before  another  succeeded  it  in  the  shape  of 
anxieties  and  difficulties  caused  by  the  delicate  state  of  Ada's 
health.  Doctors  were  consulted  in  all  directions,  and  the  result 
of  their  advice  was  that  the  marriage  must  be  deferred,  and 
that  Miss  Elmslie  must  leave  England  for  a  certain  time,  to 
reside  in  a  warmer  climate — the  south  of  France,  if  I  remember 
rightly.  Thus  it  happened  that  just  before  Alfred  came  of  age, 
Ada  and  her  mother  departed  for  the  Continent,  and  the  union 
of  the  two  young  people  was  understood  to  be  indefinitely  post- 
poned. 

Some  curiosity  was  felt  in  the  neighborhood  as  to  what  Alfred 
Monkton  would  do  under  these  circumstances.  Would  he  fol- 
low his  lady-love  ?  or  would  he  go  yachting?  would  he  throw 
open  the  doors  of  the  old  Abbey  at  last,  and  endeavor  to  forget 
the  absence  of  Ada  and  the  postponement  of  his  marriage  in  a 
round  of  gayeties  ?  He  did  none  of  these  things.  He  simply 
remained  at  Wincot,  living  as  suspiciously  strange  and  solitary 
a  life  as  his  father  had  before  him.  Literally,  there  was  no 
companion  for  him  at  the  Abbey  but  the  old  priest — the  Monk- 
tons,  I  should  have  mentioned  before,  were  Roman  Catholics 
— who  had  held  the  office  of  tutor  to  Alfred  from  his  earliest 
years.  He  came  of  age,  and  there  was  not  even  so  much  as  a 
private  dinner-party  at  Wincot  to  celebrate  the  event.  Families 
in  the  neighborhood  determined  to  forget  the  offense  which  his 
father's  reserve  had  given  them,  and  invited  him  to  their  houses. 
The  invitations  were  politely  declined.  Civil  visitors  called  reso- 
lutely at  the  Abbey,  and  were  as  resolutely  bowed  away  from 
the  doors  as  soon  as  they  had  left  their  cards.  Under  this  com- 
bination of  sinister  and  aggravating  circumstances,  people  in  all 
directions  took  to  shaking  their  heads,  mysteriously  when  the 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS.  83 

name  of  Mr,  Alfred  Monkton  was  mentioned,  hinting  at  tho 

,dty,    and  wondering   peevishly   or  sadly,   as 
tempers  inclined  them,  what  he  could  possibly  do  to  occupy  him- 
self month  after  month  in  the  lonely  old  house. 

The  right  answer  to  this  question  was  not  easy  to  find.  It  was 
quite  list-less,  for  example,  to  apply  to  the  priest  for  it.  He  was 
y  quiet,  polite  old  gentleman;  his  replies  were  always  ex- 
cessively ready  and  civil,  and  appeared  at  the  time  to  convey  an 
immense  quantity  of  information;  but  when  they  came  to  be 
reflected  on,  it  was  universally  observed  that  nothing  tangible 
could  ever  be  got  out  of  them.  The  housekeeper,  a  weird  old 
woman,  with  a  very  abrupt  and  repelling  manner,  was  too  fierce 
and  taciturn  to  be  safely  approached.  The  few  in-door  servants 
had  all  been  long  enough  in  the  family  to  have  learned  to  hold 
their  tongues  in  public  as  a  regular  habit.  It  was  only  from  the 
farm-servants  who  supplied  the  table  at  the  Abbey  that  any  in- 
formation could  be  obtained,  and  vague  enough  it  was  when 
they  came  to  communicate  it. 

Some  of  them  had  observed  the  "  young  master"  walking 
about  the  library  with  heaps  of  dusty  papers  17 1  his  hands. 
Others  had  heard  odd  noises  in  the  uninhabited  parts  of  the 
Abbey,  had  looked  up,  and  had  seen  him  forcing  open  the  old 
windows,  as  if  to  let  light  and  air  into  rooms  supposed  to  have 
l>een  shut  close  for  years  and  years,  or  had  discovered  him 
standing  on  the  perilous  summit  of  one  of  the  crumbling  turrets, 
never  ascended  before  within  their  memories,  and  popularly  con- 
sidered to  be  inhabited  by  the  ghosts  of  the  monks  who  had  once 
possessed  the  building.  The  result  of  these  observations  and 
discoveries,  when  they  were  communicated  to  others,  was  of 
course  to  impress  every  one  with  a  firm  belief  that  "  poor  young 
Monkton  was  going  the  way  that  the  rest  of  the  family  had  gone 
before  him,"  which  opinion  always  appeared  to  be  immensely 
strengthened  in  the  popular  mind  by  a  conviction — founded  on 
no  particle  of  evidence — that  the  priest  was  at  the  bottom  of  all 
the  mischief. 

Thus  far  I  have  spoken  from  hearsay  evidence  mostly.  What 
I  have  next  to  tell  will  be  the  result  of  my  own  personal  experi- 
ence. 


CHAPTER  IL 

ABOUT  five  months  after  Alfred  Monkton  came  of  age  I  left 
college,  and  resolved  to  anmse  and  instruct  myself  a  little  by 
traveling  abroad. 

At  the  time  when  I  quitted  England  young  Monkton  was  still 
leading  his  secluded  life  at  the  Abbey,  and  was.  in  the  opinion  of 
everybody,  sinking  rapidly,  if  he  had  not  already  succumbed 
under  the  hereditary  curse  of  his  family.  ,\  Elmsli* 

port  said  that  Ada  had   benefited  by  her  sojourn  abroad,  and 
that  mother  and  daughter  were  on   their  \\  land 

to  resume  their  old  relations  witli  the  heir  of  Wincot 
they  returned,  I  was  away  on    my   travels,  and   wandered  half 
Europe,  hardly  ever  planning  whither  I  should  shap< 


&4  THE    QUEEN    OF  HEARTS. 

course  beforehand.  Chance,  which  thus  led  me  everywhere,  led 
me  at  last  to  Naples.  There  I  met  with  an  old  jschool  friend, 
who  was  one  of  the  attaches  at  the  English  embassy,  and  there 
began  the  extraordinary  events  in  connection  with  Alfred 
Monkton  which  form  the  main  interest  of  the  story  I  am  now 
relating. 

1  was  idling  away  the  time  one  morning  with  my  friend  the 
attache  in  the  garden  of  the  Villa  Reale  when  we  were  passed  by 
a  young  man,  walking  alone,  who  exchanged  bows  with  my 
friend. 

I  thought  I  recognized  the  dark,  eager  eyes,  the  colorless 
cheeks,  the  strangely- vigilant,  anxious  expression  which  I 
remembered  in  past  times  as  characteristic  of  Alfred  Monkton's 
face,  and  was  about  to  question  my  friend  on  the  subject,  when 
he  gave  me  unasked  the  information  of  which  I  was  in  search. 

"That  is  Alfred  Monkton,"  said  he;  "he  comes  from  your 
part  of  England.  You  ought  to  know  him." 

"  I  do  know  a  little  of  him,"  I  answered;  "he  was  engaged 
to  Miss  Elmslie  when  I  was  last  in  the  neighborhood  of  Wincot. 
Is  he  married  to  her  yet?" 

"  No,  and  he  never  ought  to  be.  He  has  gone  the  way  of  the 
rest  of  the  family — or,  in  plainer  words,  he  has  gone  mad." 

"  Mad!  But  I  ought  not  to  be  surprised  at  hearing  that,  after 
the  reports  about  him  in  England." 

"  I  speak  from  no  reports;  I  speak  from  what  he  has  said  and 
done  before  me,  and  before  hundreds  of  other  people.  Surely 
you  must  have  heard  of  it  ?" 

"Never.  I  have  been  out  of  the  way  of  news  from  Naples 
or  England  for  months  past." 

"Then  I  have  a  very  extraordinary  story  to  tell  you.  You 
know,  of  course,  that  Alfred  had  au  uncle,  Stephen  Monkton. 
Well,  some  time  ago  this  uncle  fought  a  duel  in  the  Roman 
States  with  a  Frenchman,  who  [shot  him  dead.  The  seconds 
and  the  Frenchman  (who  was  unhurt)  took  to  flight  in  dif- 
ferent directions,  as  it  is  supposed.  We  heard  nothing  here 
of  the  details  of  the  duel  till  a  month  after  it  happened,  when 
one  of  the  French  journals  published  an  account  of  it,  taken 
from  the  papers  left  by  Monkton's  second,  who  died  at  Paris  of 
consumption.  These  papers  stated  the  manner  in  which  the 
duel  was  fought,  and  how  it  terminated,  but  nothing  more. 
The  surviving  second  and  the  Frenchman  have  never  been 
traced  from  that  time  to  this.  All  that  anybody  knows,  there- 
fore, of  the  duel  is  that  Stephen  Monkton  was  shot;  an  event 
which  nobody  can  regret,  for  a  greater  scoundrel  never  existed. 
The  exact  place  where  he  died,  and  what  was  done  with  the 
body,  are  still  mysteries  not  to  be  penetrated." 

"  But  what  has  all  this  to  do  with  Alfred  ?" 

"Wait  a  moment  and  you  will  hear.  Soon  after  the  news  of 
his  uncle's  death  reached  England,  what  do  you  think  Alfred 
did  ?  He  actually  put  off  his  marriage  with  Miss  Elmslie,  which 
was  then  about  to  be  celebrated,  to  come  out  here  in  search  of 
the  burial-place  of  his  wretched  scamp  of  an  uncle;  and  no 
power  on  earth  will  now  induce  him  to  return  to  England  and 


V    OF  TS.  85 

iss  Elmslie  until  lie  has  found  tin-body,  nnd  can  take  it  back 
with  him,  to  bo  buried  with  all  the  other  dead  Monktons  in  the 
vault  under  \Vi  >bey  Chapel.  He  I  his 

the  police,  and  exposed  himself  to  the   ridicule 
of  the  men  and  the  indignation  of  the  women  for  i  three 

months  in    trying  to  achieve  his  insane  purpo-r.  and  : 
far  from  it  as  ever.     He  will  not  assign  to  anybody  tin 
>nduct.     You  can't  laugh  him  out  of  it 
nit  of  it.     When  we  met  him  just  now  I  happen  to   1. 

<>n  his  way  to  the  office  of  the  police   miui-t« T,  to 

send  out  fresh  agents  to  search  and  inquire  through  the  Roman 

States  for  the  place  where  his  uncle   was  shot.     And,  rnind.  all 

this  time  he  professes  to  be  passionately  in  love  with  Miss  Klms- 

nd  to  be  miserable  at  his  separation  from  her.     Just  think 

of  that!    And  then  think  of  his  self-imposed  absence  from   her 

.  to  hunt  after  the  remains  of  a  wretch  who  was  a  disgrace 

to  the  family,  and  whom  he  never  saw  but  once  or  twice  in  his 

Of  all  the  *  Mad  Monktons,'  as  they  used  to  call  them  in 

England,  Alfred  is  the  maddest.     He  is  actually    our  principal 

excitement  in  this  dull  opera  season;  though,  for  my  part,  when 

I  think  of  the  poor  girl  in  England,  I  am  a  great  deal  more  ready 

-pise  him  than  to  laugh  at  him.'' 
"  You  know  the  Elmslies,  then  V 

"  Intimately.     The  other  day  my  mother  wrote  to  me  from 

England,  after  having  seen  Ada.     This  escapade  of  Monktons 

has  outraged  all  her  friends.     They  have  been  entreating  her  to 

break  off  the  match,  which  it  seems  she  could  do  if  she  liked. 

her  mother,  sordid  and  selfish  as  she  is,  has  been  obliged  at 

in  common  decency,  to  side  with  the  rest  of  the  family; 

but  the  good,  faithful  girl  won't  give  Monkton  up.     She  humors 

his  insanity;  and  declares  he  gave  her  a  good  reason  in  secret  for 

I  away;  says  she  could  always  make  him  happy  when  they 

tlier  in  the  old  Abbey,  and  can  make  him  still  happier 

when  they  are  married;  in  short,  she  loves  him  dearly,  and  will 

believe  in  him  to  the  last.     Nothing  shakes  her.     She 

made  up  her  mind  to  throw  away  her  life  on  him,  and  she 

will  do  it." 

"  I  hope  not.  Mad  as  his  conduct  looks  to  us,  he  may  have 
some  sensible  reason  for  it  that  we  cannot  imagine.  Does 
his  mind  seem  at  all  disordered  when  he  talks  on  ordinary 
topi< 

"  Xot  in  the  least.     When  you  can  get  him  t<  ivthing, 

which  is  not  often,  he  talks  like 

about  his  p:  rrand  here,  and  you  would  t' 

him  the  L  and  most  temperate  of  human  ut  touch 

nbjeet  of  hi  Q  uncle,  and  th-  nad- 

ness  comes  out  din  The  other   \  ,rd  him, 

.  of  course,  whether  he  ha<: 

>d  at  her  like  a  perfect,  lirnd,  and  s  I    his 

uncle  would   answer  her  question  day,  if   they 

from  hell  to  do  it.      We  lar  :  ds.  but  th. 

tainted  at  his  looks,  and  we  had 

•  1 1  lU'iii  •(  •.        \  A'ould    1: 


86  TEE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

out  of  the  room  for  nearly  frightening  a  pretty  woman  to  death 
in  that  way;  but  '  Mad  Monkton,'  as  we  have  christened  him,  is 
a  privileged  lunatic  in  Neapolitan  society,  because  he  is  English, 
good-looking,  and  worth  thirty  thousand  a  year.  He  goes  out 
everywhere  under  the  impression  that  he  may  meet  with  some- 
body who  has  been  let  into  the  secret  of  the  place  where  the 
mysterious  duel  was  fought.  If  you  are  introduced  to  him  he  is 
sure  to  ask  you  whether  you  know  anything  about  it;  but  beware 
of  following  up  the  subject/  after  you  have  answered  him,  unless 
you  want  to  make  sure  that  he  is  out  of  his  senses.  In  that  case, 
only  talk  of  his  uncle,  and  the  result  will  rather  more  than 
satisfy  you." 

A  day  or  two  after  this  conversation  with  my  friend  the  at- 
tache,  I  met  Monkton  at  an  evening  party. 

The  moment  he  heard  my  name  mentioned,  his  face  flushed 
up,  he  drew  me  away  into  a  corner,  and  referring  to  his  cool  re- 
ception of  my  advance  years  ago  toward  making  his  acquaint- 
ance, asked  my  pardon  for  what  he  termed  his  inexcusable  in- 
gratitude with  an  earnestness  and  an  agitation  which  utterly 
astonished  me.  His  next  proceeding  was  to  question  me,  as  my 
friend  had  said  he  would,  about  the  place  of  the  mysterious 
duel. 

An  extraordinary  change  came  over  him  while  he  interrogated 
me  on  tin's  point.  Instead  of  looking  into  my  face  as  they  had 
looked  hitherto,  his  eyes  wandered  away,  and  fixed  themselves 
intensely,  almost  fiercely,  either  on  the  perfectly  empty  wall  at 
our  side,  or  on  the  vacant  space  between  the  wall  and  ourselves, 
it  was  impossible  to  say  which.  I  had  come  to  Naples  from 
Spain  by  sea,  and  briefly  told  him  so,  as  the  best  way  of  satisfy- 
ing him  that  I  could  not  assist  his  inquiries.  He  pursued  them 
no  further;  and,  mindful  of  my  friend's  warning,  I  took  care  to 
lead  the  conversation  to  general  topics.  He  looked  back  at  me 
directly,  and,  as  long  as  we  stood  in  our  corner,  his  eyes  never 
wandered  away  again  to  the  empty  wall  or  the  vacant  space 
at  our  side. 

Though  more  ready  to  listen  than  to  speak,  his  conversation, 
when  lie  did  talk,  had  no  trace  of  anything  the  least  like  in- 
sanity about  it.  He  had  evidently  read,  not  generally  only,  but 
deeply  as  well,  and  could  apply  his  reading  with  singular  felic- 
ity to  the  illustration  of  almost  any  subject  under  discussion, 
neither  obtruding  his  knowledge  absurdly,  nor  concealing  it 
affectedly.  His  manner  was  in  itself  a  standing  protest  against 
such  a  nick-name  as  "  Mad  Monkton."  He  was  so  shy,  so  quiet, 
so  composed  and  gentle  in  all  his  actions,  that  at  times  I  should 
have  been  almost  inclined  to  call  him  effeminate.  We  had  a 
long  talk  together  on  the  first  evening  of  our  meeting;  we  often 
saw  each  other  afterward,  and  never  lost  a  single  opportunity  of 
bettering  our  acquaintance.  I  felt  that  lie  had  taken  a  liking  to 
me,  and,  in  spite  of  what  I  had  heard  about  his  behavior  to  Miss 
Elmslie,  in  spite  of  the  suspicions  which  the  history  of  bin  fam- 
ily and  his  own  conduct  had  arrayed  against  him,  1  began  to 
like  "  Mad  Monkton  "  as  much  as  he  liked  me.  We  took  many 
a  quiet  ride  together  in  the  country,  and  sailed  often  along^the. 


THE  V    OF  rS.  87 

of  tho  Bay  on  either  side.     But  for  two  eroonti  i 
his  condu  hi  could  not  at  all  understand,  I  should 

t'elt  as  much  at  my  ease  in  I  iv  as  it  lit-  had  been  my 

own  brother. 

The  fust  of  these  eccentricities  consisted  in  the  reappearance 
of  the  odd  expression   in  his  eyes  which  I 
i  when  he  asked  me  whether  I  knew  anything  about 
iel.     No  matter  what  we  were  talking  about,  or  when 
happened  to  be,  there  were  times  when  he  would  suddenly  look 
away  from  my  face,  now  on  one  side  of  me,  now  on  the  other, 
I  ways  where  there  was  nothing  to  see,  and  always  with  the 
same  intensity  and  fierceness  in  his  eyes.    This  looked  so  like 
madness — or  hypochondria  at  the  least— that  I  felt  afraid  to  ask 
him  about  it,  and  always  pretended  not  to  observe  him. 
The  second  peculiarity  in  his  conduct  was  that  he  never  re- 
I,  while  in  my  company,  to  the  reports  about  his  errand  at 
Naples,  and  never 'once  spoke  of  Miss  Elmslie,  or  of  his  life  at 
"Wincott  Abbey.     This  not  only  astonished  me,  but  amazed  those 
who  had  noticed  our  intimacy,  and  who  had  made  sure  that  I 
must  be  the  depositary  of  all  his  secrets.     But  the  time  was 
near  at  hand  when  this  mystery,  and  some  other  mysteries  of 
which  I  had   no  suspicion  at  that  period,  were   ah  to  be  re- 
vealed. 

I  met  him  one  night  at  a  large  ball,  given  by  a  Russian  noble- 
man, whose  name  I  could  not  pronounce  then,  and  cannot  re- 
member now.  I  had  wandered  away  from  reception-room,  ball- 
room, and  card-room,  to  a  small  apartment  at  one  extremity  of 
the  palace,  which  was  half  conservatory,  half  boudoir,  and 
which  had  been  prettily  illuminated  for  the  occasion  with  Chi- 
nese lanterns.  Nobody  was  in  the  room  when  I  got  there.  The 
view  over  the  Mediterranean,  bathed  in  the  bright  softness  of 
Italian  moonlight,  was  so  lovely  that  I  remained  fora  long  time 
at  the  window,  looking  out,  and  listening  to  the  dance-music 
which  faintly  reached  me  from  the  ball-room.  My  thoughts 
were  far  away  with  the  relations  I  had  left  in  England,  when  I 
was  startled  out  of  them  by  hearing  my  name  softly  pro- 
noun1 

I  looked  round  directly,  and  saw  Monkton  standing  in  the 
room.  A  livid  paleness  overspread  his  face,  and  his  eyes  were 
turned  away  from  me  with  the  same  extraordinary  expression 
in  them  to  which  I  have  already  alluded. 

"  Do  you  mind  leaving  the  ball  early  to-night?"  he  asked,  still 
not  looking  at  me. 

"Not  at  all,"  said  I.     "  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?    Are  you 

HI?" 

"No — at  least  nothing  to  speak  of.  Will  you  come  to  my 
rooms  ?" 

"  At  once,  if  you  like." 

"No,  not  at  once,     /must  go  home  directly;  but  don't  you 
come  to  me  for  half  an  hour  yet.     You  have  not  been  at  my 
rooms  before,  I  know,  but  you  will  easily  find  them  out; 
are  close  by.    There  is  a  card  with  my  address.    I  must  speak 


88  THE    QUEEN   OF   HEARTS. 

to  you  to-night;  my  life  depends  on  it.  Pray  come!  for  God's 
Bake  come  when  the  half  hour  is  up!" 

I  promised  to  be  punctual,  and  he  left  me  directly. 

Most  people  will  be  easily  able  to  imagine  the  state  of  nervous 
impatience  and  vague  expectation  in  which  I  passed  the  allotted 
period  of  delay,  after  hearing  such  words  as  those  Monkton  had 
spoken  to  me.  Before  the  half  hour  had  quite  expired  I  began 
to  make  my  way  out  through  the  ball-room. 

At  the  head  of  the  staircase  my  friend  the  attache  met  me. 

"  What!  going  away  already  ?"  said  he. 

' '  Yes;  and  on  a  very  curious  expedition.  I  am  going  to  Monk- 
ton's  rooms,  by  his  own  invitation." 

"You  don't  mean  it!  Upon  my  honor,  you're  a  bold  fellow  to 
trust  yourself  alone  with  '  Mad  Monkton  '  when  the  moon  is  at 
the  full." 

"  He  is  ill.  poor  fellow.  Besides,  I  don't  think  him  half  as 
mad  as  you  do." 

"We  won't  dispute  about  that;  but  mark  my  words,  he  has 
toot  asked  you  to  go  where  no  visitor  has  ever  been  admitted 
before  without  a  special  purpose.  I  predict  that  you  will  see  or 
hear  something  to-night  which  you  will  remember  for  the  rest 
of  your  life." 

We  parted.  When  I  knocked  at  the  courtyard  gate  of  the 
house  where  Monkton  lived,  my  friend's  last  words  on  the  pal- 
ace staircase  recurred  to  me,  and  though  I  had  laughed  at  him 
when  he  spoke  them,  I  began  to  suspect  even  then  that  his  pre- 
diction would  be  fulfilled. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  porter  who  let  me  into  the  house  where  Monkton  lived 
directed  me  to  the  floor  on  which  his  rooms  were  situated.  On 
getting  up-stairs,  I  found  his  door  on  the  landing  ajar.  He 
heard  my  footsteps,  I  suppose,  for  he  called  to  me  to  come  in  be- 
fore I  could  knock. 

I  entered,  and  found  him  sitting  by  the  table,  with  some  loose 
letters  in  his  hand,  which  he  was  just  tying  together  into  a 
packet.  I  noticed,  as  he  asked  me  to  sit  down,  that  his  expres- 
sion looked  more  composed,  though  the  paleness  had  not  yet  left 
his  face.  He  thanked  me  for  coming;  repeated  that  he  had 
something  very  important  to  say  to  me,  and  then  stopped  short, 
apparently  too  much  embarrassed  to  proceed.  I  tried  to  set  him 
at  his  ease  by  assuring  him  that,  if  my  assistance  or  advice  could 
be  of  any  use,  I  was  ready  to  place  myself  and  my  time  heartily 
and  unreservedly  at  his  service. 

As  I  said  this  I  saw  his  eyes  beginning  to  wander  away  from 
my  face — to  wander  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  as  it  were,  until  they 
stopped  at  a  certain  point,  with  the  same  fixed  stare  into  va- 
cancy which  had  so  often  startled  me  on  former  occasions.  The 
whole  expression  of  his  face  altered  as  I  had  never  yet  seen  it 
alter;  he  sat  before  me  looking  like  a  man  in  a  death  trance. 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  he  said,  slowly  and  faintly,  speaking, 


KEN    OF  TS.  80 

it  in  the  direction  in  which  his  eyes  were  still  Ji 

"  1  !,  a  help  im-:   but " 

ll«  ;  his  lure  whitened 'horribly,  and  the  pers; 

r  it.     ll<-  tried  to  continue — said  a  word  m 

eriously  alarm cd  about  him,  I  rose  from 
\\ith  tin-  intention  of  getting  him  some  water  from  a 
which  1  nding  on  aside-table. 

lit-  sprang  up  at  the  same  moment.     All  the  suspicions  I  had 
heard  whimpered  against  his  sanity  flashed  over  my  mind 
in  an  instant,  and  I  involuntarily  stepped  back  a  pace  or  K 

op,"  he  said,  seating  himself  again:  "don't  mind  me;  and 
don't  leave  your  chair.     I  want — I  wish,  if  you  please,  to  make 
a  little  alteration,  before  we  say  anything  more.     Do  you  mind 
sitting  in  a  strong  light?" 
"Not  hi  the  least." 

I  had  hitherto  been  seated  in  the  shade  of  his  reading-lamp, 
the  only  light  in  the  room. 

As  I  answered  him  he  rose  again,  and,  going  into  another 
apartment,  returned  with  a  large  lamp  in  his  hand;  then  took 
two  candles  t'rom  the  side-table, and  two  others  from  the  chimney- 
piece;  placed  them  all,  to  my  amazement,  [together,  so  as  to 
stand  exactly  between  us,  and  then  tried  to  light  them.  His 
hand  trembled  so  that  he  was  obliged  to  give  up  the  attempt, 
and  allow  me  to  come  to  his  assistance.  By  his  direction,  I  took 
the  shade  off  the  reading-lamp  after  I  had  lit  the  other  lamp  and 
four  candles.  When  we  sat  down  again,  with  this  concentra- 
tion of  light  between  us,  his  better  and  gentler  manner  began  to 
return,  and  while  he  now  addressed  me  he  spoke  without  the 
slightest  hesitation. 

4 '  It  is  useless  to  ask  whether  you  have  heard  the  reports  about 
me,"  he  said;  "  I  know  that  "you  have.  My  purpose  to-night  is 
to  give  you  some  reasonable  explanation  of  the  conduct  which 
has.produced  those  reports.  My  secret  has  been  hitherto  confided 
to  one  person  only;  I  am  now  about  to  trust  it  to  your  keeping, 
with  a  special  object  winch  will  appear  as  I  go  on.  First,  how- 
I  must  be^in  by  telling  you  exactly  what  the  great  diffi- 
culty is  which  obliges  me  to  be  still  absent  from  England.  I  want 
your  advice  and  your  help;  and,  to  conceal  nothing  from  yon,  I 
want  also  to  test  your  forbearance  and  your  friendly  sympathy 
before  I  can  venture  on  trusting  my  miserable  secret  into  your 
ing.  Will  you  pardon  this  apparent  distrust  of  your  frauk 
and  open  character— this  apparent  ingratitude  for  your  kin* 

ird  me  e  >•  we  first  met  ':" 

I  begged  him  not  to  speak  of  these  things,  but  to  go  on. 

••  You   know,''  he  proceeded,  "that  lam  here  to  recover  the 

body  of  my  Uncle  Stephen,  and  to  carry  it  back  with  me  to  our 

family  burial-place  in  England,  and  yoii  must  also  beawaiv  that 

1  have  not  yet  succeeded   in  discovering   his   remains.     Try  to 

over,  for  the   present,  whatever   may  seem    extraordinary 

and    incomprehensible    in   such  a   purpose  as  mine  is,  and  read 

•  per  article  where  the   ink-line   is   traced.     It    i 
only  evidence  hitherto  obtained  on  the  subject  of  the  fatal  duel 
iu  which  my  uncle  fell,  and  1  want  to  hear  what  course  of  pro- 


90  THE    QUEEN   OF   HEARTS. 

ceeding  the  perusal  of  it  may  suggest  to  you  as  likely  to  be  best 
on  my  part." 

He  handed  me  an  old  French  newspaper.  The  substance  of 
what  I  read  there  is  still  so  firmly  impressed  on  my  memory  that 
I  am  certain  of  being  able  to  repeat  correctly  at  this  distance  of 
time  all  the  facts  which  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  communicate 
to  the  reader. 

The  article  began,  I  remember,  with  editorial  remarks  on  the 
great  curiosity  then  felt  in  regard  to  the  fatal  duel  between  the 
Count  St.  Lo  and  Mr.  Stephen  Monkton,  an  English  gentleman. 
The  writer  proceeded  to  dwell  at  great  length  on  the  extraordi- 
nary secrecy  in  which  the  whole  affair  had  been  involved  from 
first  to  last,  and  to  express  a  hope  that  the  publication  of  a  cer- 
tain manuscript,  to  which  his  introductory  observations  re- 
ferred, might  lead  to  the  production  of  'fresh  evidence  from 
other  and  better- informed  quarters.  The  manuscript  had  been 
found  among  the  papers  of  Monsieur  Foulon,  Mr.  Monkton's 
second,  who  had  died  at  Paris  of  a  rapid  decline  shortly  after 
returning  to  his  home  in  that  city  from  the  scene  of  the  duel. 
The  document  was  unfinished,  having  been  left  incomplete  at 
the  very  place  where  the  reader  would  most  wish  to  find  it  con- 
tinued. No  reason  could  be  discovered  for  this,  and  no  second 
manuscript  bearing  on  the  all-important  subject  had  been  found, 
after  the  strictest  search  among  the  papers  left  by  the  deceased. 

The  document  itself  then  followed. 

It  purported  to  be  an  agreement  privately  drawn  up  between 
Mr.  Monkton's  second,  Monsieur  Foulon,  and  the  Count  St.  Lo's 
second,  Moneieur  Dalville,  and  contained  a  statement  of  all  the 
arrangements  for  conducting  the  duel.  The  paper  was  dated 
"  Naples,  February  22d,"  and  was  divided  into  some  seven  or 
eight  clauses. 

The  first  clause  described  the  origin  and  nature  of  the  quarrel 
— a  very  disgraceful  affair  on  both  sides,  worth  neitflier  remem- 
bering nor  repeating.  The  second  clause  stated  that,  the  chal- 
lenged man  having  chosen  the  pistol  as  his  weapon,  and  the 
challenger  (an  excellent  swordsman)  having,  on  his  side,  there- 
upon insisted  that  the  duel  should  be  fought  in  such  a  manner 
as  to  make  the  first  fire  decisive  in  its  results,  the  seconds,  see- 
ing that  fatal  consequences  must  inevitably  follow  the  hostile 
meeting,  determined,  first  of  all,  that  the  duel  should  be  kept  a 
profound  secret  from  everybody,  and  that  the  place  where  it 
was  to  be  fought  should  not  be  made  known  beforehand,  even 
to  the  principals  themselves.  It  was  added  that  this  excess  of 
precaution  had  been  rendered  absolutely  necessary  in  conse- 
quence of  a  recent  address  from  the  Pope  to  the  ruling  powers 
commenting  on  the  scandalous  frequency  of  the  practice  of 
dueling,  and  urgently  desiring  that  the  laws  against  duelists 
should  be  enforced  for  the  future  with  the  utmost  rigor. 

The  third  clause  detailed  the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  ar- 
ranged that  the  duel  should  be  fought. 

The  pistols  having  been  loaded  by  the  seconds  on  the  gSGiaBd, 
the  combatants  were  to  be  placed  thirty  paces  apart,  and  woro  Co 
toss  up  for  the  first  fire.  The  man  who  won  was  to  advance  too 


77;  V    OF    Hi: AH,  91 

pacen — marked  out  for  him  beforehand — and  wag  then  to  discharge 

!.     Tf  he  missed  or  failed  to  disable  his  opponent,  tlie 

to  advance,  if  he  chose,  the  whole  remaining 

s  l>efore  he  fired  in  his  turn.     This  air.  nt  in- 

e  termination  of  the  duel  at  the  first  discharge 

of  the  pistols,  and  both  principals  and  seconds  pledged  themselves 

on  either  side  to  abide  by  it. 

The  fourth  clause  stated  that  the  seconds  had  agreed  that  the 
duel  should  be  fought  out  of  the  Neapolitan  States,  but  left 
themselves  to  be  guided  by  circumstances  as  to  the  exact  local- 
ity in  which  it  should  take  place.  The  remaining  clauses,  so  far 
as  I  remember  them,  were  devoted  to  detailing  the  different  pre- 
cautions to  be  adopted  for  avoiding  discovery.  The  duelists  and 
their  seconds  were  to  leave  Naples  in  separate  parties;  were  to 
change  carriages  several  times,  were  to  meet  at  a  certain  town, 
or,  failing  that,  at  a  certain  post-house  on  the  high  road  from 
Naples  to  Rome;  were  to  carry  drawing- books,  color- boxes,  and 
camp-stools,  as  if  they  bad  been  artists  out  on  a  sketching  tour; 
and  were  to  proceed  to  the  place  of  the  duel  on  foot,  employing 
no  guides,  for  fear  of  treachery.  Such  general  arrangements  as 
these,  and  others  for  facilitating  the  flight  of  the  survivors  after 
the  affair  was  over,  formed  the  conclusion  of  this  extraordinary 
document,  which  was  signed,  in  initalsonly,  by  both  the  seconds. 

Just  below  the  initials  appeared  the  beginning  of  a  narrative, 
dated  "  Paris,"  and  evidently  intended  to  describe  the  duel  itself 
with  extreme  minuteness.  The  handwriting  was  that  of  the 
deceased  second. 

Monsieur  Foulon,  the  gentlemen  in  question,  stated  his  belief 
that  circumstances  might  transpire  which  would  render  an  ac- 
count by  an  eye-witness  of  the  hostile  meeting  between  St.  Lo 
and  Mr.  Monkton  an  important  document.  He  proposed  there- 
fore, as  one  of  the  seconds,  to  testify  that  the  duel  had  been 
fought  in  exact  accordance  with  the  terms  of  the  agreement, 
both  the  principals  conducting  themselves  like  men  of  gallantry 
and  honor  (!).  And  he  further  announced  that,  in  order  not  to 
compromise  any  one,  he  should  place  the  paper  containing  his 
testimony  in  safe  hands,  with  strict  directions  that  it  was  on  no 
account  to  be  opened  except  in  a  case  of  the  last  emergency. 

After  this  preamble.  Monsieur  Foulon  related  that  the  duel 
had  been  fought  two  days  after  the  drawing  up  of  the  a. 
raent,  in  a  locality  to  which  accident  had  conducted  the  dueling 
party.     (The  name  of  the  place  was  not  mentioned,  nor  even  the 
iborhood  iu  which  it  was  situated.)    The  men  having  been 
placed  according  to  previous  agreement,  the  Count  St.  Lo  had 
won  the  toss  for  the  first  fire,  had  advanced   his  ten  p.i 
had  shot  his  opponent  in  the  body.     Mr.  Monkton  did  not  im- 
mediately fall,  but  Bi  I  forward  >oine  six  or  seven  paces, 
discharged  his  pistol  ineilVrtually  at  the  count,  and  dropped  to 
the  ground  a  dead  man.     Monsieur  Foulon  then  stated  that   he 
tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket-book,  wrote  on  it  a  brief  desrnj 
of  the  manner  in  which  Mr.  Monkton  had  died,  and  pinned  tin- 
r  to  his  clothes;  this  proceeding  having  been  rendered 
the  peculiar  nature  of  the  plan  organ i. 


92  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

for  safely  disposing  of  the  dead  body.  What  this  plan  was,  or 
what  was  done  with  the  corpse,  did  not  appear,  for  at  this  im- 
portant point  the  narrative  abruptly  broke  off. 

A  foot-note  in  the  newspaper  merely  stated  the  manner  in 
which  the  document  had  been  obtained  for  publication,  and  re- 
peated the  announcement  contained  in  the  editor's  introductory 
remarks,  that  no  continuation  had  been  found  by  the  persons  in- 
trusted with  the  care  of  Monsieur  Foulon's  papers.  I  have  now 
given  the  whole  substance  of  what  1  read,  and  have  mentioned 
all  that  was  then  known  of  Mr.  Stephen  Monkton's  death. 

When  I  gave  the  newspaper  back  to  Alfred  be  was  too  much 
agitated  to  speak,  but  he  reminded  me  by  a  sign  that  he  was 
anxiously  waiting  to  hear  what  I  had  to  say.  My  position  was 
a  very  trying  and  a  very  painful  one.  I  could  hardly  tell  what 
consequences  might  not  follow  any  want  of  caution  on  my  part, 
and  could  think  at  first  of  no  safer  plan  than  questioning  him 
carefully  before  I  committed  myself  either  one  way  or  the 
other. 

"  Will  you  excuse  me  if  I  ask  you  a  question  or  two  before  I 
give  you  my  pdvice?"  I  said. 

He  nodded  impatiently. 

"  Yes,  yes — any  questions  you  like." 

"Were  you  at  any  time  in  the  habit  of  seeing  your  uncle  fre- 
quently ?" 

"  I  never  saw  him  more  than  twice  in  my  life — on  each  occa- 
sion when  I  was  a  mere  child." 

"  Then  you  could  have  had  no  very  strong  personal  regard  for 
him." 

"  Regard  for  him!  I  should  have  been  ashamed  to  fee)  any 
regard  for  him.  He  disgraced  us  wherever  he  went." 

' '  May  I  ask  if  any  family  motive  is  involved  in  your  anxiety 
to  recover  his  remains  ?" 

"  Family  motives  may  enter  into  it  among  others — but  why  do 
you  ask  ?" 

"Because,  having  heard  that  you  employ  the  police  to  assist 
your  search,  I  was  anxious  to  know  whether  you  had  stimulated 
their  superiors  to  make  them  do  their  best  in  your  service  by 
giving  some  strong  personal  reasons  at  headquarters  for  the  very 
unusual  project  which  has  brought  you  here." 

"I  give  no  reasons.  I  pay  for  the  work  I  want  done,  and,  in 
return  for  my  liberality,  I  am  treated  with  the  most  infamous 
indifference  on  all  sides.  A  stranger  in  the  country  and  badly 
acquainted  with  the  language.  I  can  do  nothing  to  help  myself. 
The  authorities,  both  at  Rome  and  in  this  place,  pretend  to 
assist  me,  pretend  to  search  and  inquire  as  I  would  have  tnem 
search  and  inquire,  and  do  nothing  more.  I  am  insulted,  laughed 
at,  almost  to  my  face." 

"  Do  you  not  think  it  possible — mind  I  have  no  wish  to  excuse 
the  misconduct  of  the  authorities,  and  do  not  share  in  any  such 
opinion  myself — but  do  you  not  think  it  likely  that  the  police 
may  doubt  whether  you  are  in  earnest  ?" 

"  Not  in  earnest,"  he  cried,  starting  up  and  confronting  me 
fiercely,  with  wild  eyes  and  quickened  breath,  "  Not_iu  earnest! 


h 


777  A:  ni<*     HI  93 

think  I'm  not  in  .     I  know  you  think   it,  though 

ou  don't.      Stop;   before  We  883    another  woi 

>\vn  .  1 1 ico  you,       Come  here     only  for  a  minute — 

>nly  for  one  mim 

him  into  his  bedroom,  which  open.-d  out  of  tie 
ing  room.     At  one  side  of  his  bed  stood  a  large  packing 
•  lain  \\ood.  upward  of  seven  feet  in  length. 

the  lid  and  look  in,"  he  said,  "  while  T  hold  th«-  candlo 
-o  that  you  can  • 

1  oljeyed  his  directions,  and  discovered  tomyastonishment  that 

he  packing  ca^e  contained  a  leaden  coffin,    magnificently  em- 

•ned  with  the  arms  of  the  Monkton  family,  and  inscribed  in 

>ld-fashioned  let  ten  with  the  name  of  "Stephen  Monkton,"  his 

:nd  the  manner  of  his  death  being  added  underneath. 
••  I   keep  his  coffin  ready  for  him."  whispered  Alfred,  close  at 
ear.     ••  I  Joes  that  look  like  earnest  V" 

looked  more  like  insanity — so  like'tbat  I  shrank  from  an- 
wering  him. 

"Yes!  yes!  I  see  you  are  convinced,"  he  continued,  quickly; 
'  we  may  go  back  into  the  next  room,  and  may  talk  without  re- 
traint  on  either  side  now." 

( >n  returning  to  our  places,  I  mechanically  moved  my  chair 
iway  from  the  table.  My  mind  was  by  this  time  in  such  a  state 
f  confusion  and  uncertainty  about  what  it  would  be  best  for  me 
o  say  or  do  next,  that  I  forgot  for  the  moment  the  position  he 
iad  assigned  to  me  when  we  lit  the  candles.  He  reminded  me 
>f  this  directly. 

"  Don't  move  away,"  he  said,  very  earnestly;  "  keep  on  sitting 
n  the  light;  pray  do!    I'll  soon  tell  you  why  I  am  so  particular 
bout  that.     But  first  give  me  your  advice;  help  me  in  my  great 
ss  and  suspense.   Remember,  you  promised  me  you  would." 
I  made  an  effort  to  collect  my  thoughts,  and  succeeded.     It 
vas  useless  to  treat  the  affair  otherwise  than  seriously  in  his 
>resence;  it  would  have  been  cruel  not  to  have  advised  him  as  I 
)est  could. 

"You  know,"  I  said.  "  that  two  days  after  the  drawing  up  of 
the  agreement  at    Naples,  the  duel  was  fought  ou, 
po  lit, an  States.     This  fact  has  of  course  led  you  to  the  conclusion 
that  all  inquiries  about  localities  had  better  be  confined  to  the 
Roman  territory?" 

ertainly;  the  search,  such  as  it  is,  has  been  made  then-,  and 

If  I   can  believe  the  police,  they  and   their  a;... 
have  inquired  for  the  place  where  the  duel  was  fought  (otlVrjng 
a  large  reward  in  my  name  to  the  person  who  can  discover  r 
along  the  high  road   from  Naples  to  Rome.     They  have  also  cir- 
••d — at  1'  hey  tell  me     <  1. '-cii  |>t  ions  ot  t  he  duelist 

seconds;   have   left  .t    to  superintend   in  ions 

;it  the  post  hou-e,  and  another  at    the  town  mention 
ing-points   in   the  agreement;    and   ha\e   endravoivd,    l> 
n  authorities,  to  I  race  the  Count  Si. 
ieur  Dalville   to   their   place  or  pla< 
efforts,  supposing  them  to  have  been  really  ma»i< 
proved  utterly  fruitl- 


94  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

"My  impression  is,"  said  I,  after  a  moment's  consideration, 
"  that  all  inquiries  made  along  the  high  road,  or  anywhere  near 
Rome,  are  likely  to  be  made  in  vain.  As  to  the  discovery  of 
your  uncle's  remains,  that  is,  I  think,  identical  with  the  dis- 
covery of  the  place  where  he  was  shot;  for  those  engaged  in  the 
duel  would  certainly  not  risk  detection  by  carrying  a  corpse  any 
distance  with  them  in  their  flight.  The  place,  then,  is  all  that 
we  want  to  find  out.  Now  let  us  consider  for  a  moment.  The 
dueling  party  changed  carriages;  traveled  separately,  two  and 
two;  doubtless  took  roundabout  roads;  stopped  at  the  post-house 
and  the  town  as  a  blind;  walked,  perhaps,  a  considerable  dis- 
tance unguided.  Depend  upon  it,  such  precautions  as  these 
(which  we  know  they  must  have  employed)  left  them  very  little 
time  out  of  the  two  days — though  they  might  start  at  sunrise 
and  not  stop  at  nightfall — for  straightforward  traveling.  My 
belief  therefore  is  that  the  duel  was  fought  somewhere  near  the 
Neapolitan  frontier;  and  if  I  had  been  the  police  agent  who  con- 
ducted the  search,  I  should  only  have  pursued  it  parallel  with 
the  frontier,  starting  from  west  to  east  till  I  got  up  among  the 
lonely  places  in  the  mountains.  That  is  my  idea;  do  you  think 
it  worth  anj'thing?" 

His  face  flushed  all  over  in  an  instant.  "  I  think  it  an  inspi- 
ration!" he  cried.  "  Not  a  day  is  to  be  lost  in  carrying  out  our 
plan.  The  police  are  not  to  be  trusted  with  it.  1  must  start 
myself  to  morrow  morning;  and  you— 

He  stopped;  his  face  grew  suddenly  pale;  he  sighed  heavily; 
his  eyes  wandered  once  more  into  the  fixed  look  at  vacancy;  and 
the  rigid,  deathly  expression  fastened  again  upon  all  his  feat- 
ures. 

"  I  must  tell  you  my  secret  before  1  talk  of  to-morrow," 
he  proceeded,  faintly.  ''If  I  hesitated  any  longer  at  confessing 
everything,  I  should  be  unworthy  of  your  past  kindness,  un- 
worthy of  the  help  which  it  is  my  last  hope  that  you  will  gladly 
give  me  when  you  have  heard  all." 

I  begged  him  to  wait  until  he  was  more  composed,  until  he 
was  better  able  to  speak;  but  he  did  not  appear  to  notice  what  I 
said.  Slowly  and  struggling  as  it  seemed  against  himself,  he 
turned  a  little  away  from  me,  and,  bending  his  head  over  the  ta- 
ble, supported  it  on  his  hand.  The  packet  of  letters  with  which 
I  had  seen  him  occupied  when  I  came  in  lay  just  beneath  his 
eyes.  He  looked  down  upon  it  steadfastly  when  he  next  spoke 
to  me. 

CHAPTER   IV. 

"  You  were  gborn,  I  believe,  in  our  county,"  be  said;  "  perhaps, 
therefore,  you  may  have  heard  at  some  time  of  a  curious  prophecy 
about  our  family,  which  is  still  preserved  among  the  traditions 
of  Wincot  Abbey?" 

"I  have  heard  of  such  a  prophecy,"  I  answered,  "but  1 
never  knew  in  what  terms  it  was  expressed.  It  professed  to 
predict  the  extinction  of  your  family,  or  something  of  that  sort, 
did  it  not?" 


9ri 

"No  inquir  went  on,  "hai  prophecy 

•lie  when  il  ;  none  of  our  family  n 

tell  us  anything  of    its  origin.      Old   servants    ami  old  t> 

O  have  heard  it    from  their  father-  and  grandfa- 
iiiiuiks,  whom  we  succeeded   in  the  Abbe\   in  li 
the  Kighth's  time,  got  knou  ledge  of  it  in  some  way.  for  1  m 
d  the  rhymes,  in  which  we  know  the  prophecy  to 
been  >TV  remote  period,  written   on   a  blank 

lie  of  the  Abbev  manuscripts.     These  are   the  verses,  if 
they  d. -serve  to  be  called: 

"  '  When  in  Wincot  vault  a  pi, 

Waits  for  one  of  Monkton's  nice — 
When  that  one  forlorn  shall  lie 
Graveless  under  open  sky, 
Beggared  of  six  feet  of  earth, 
Though  lord  of  acres  from  his  birth — 
That  shall  I  in  sitrn 

Of  the  end  of   M.mktoifs  Hue. 
Dwindling  ever  faster,  faster, 
Dwindling  to  the  last-left  master; 
From  mortal  ken,  from  light  of  day, 
nkton's  race  shall  ay.' ' 

•?The  prediction  seems  almost  vague  enough  to  have  been  ut- 
tered by  an  ancient  oracle/'  said  I,  observing  that  he  waited, 
after  repeating  the  verses,  as  if  expecting  me  t'  mething. 

••  Vague  or  not,  it  is  being  accomplished."  lie  returned.     "I 
ain  now  '  the  last-left  master  ' — the  last  of  that  elder  line  of  our 
family  at  which  the  prediction  points;  and  the  corpse  of  Stephen 
Monkton  is  not  in  the  vaults  of  Wiucot  Abbey.    Wait  before  you 
exclaim  against  me.     I  have  more  to  say  about  this.     Long  be- 
fore the  At -hey  was  ours,  when  we  lived  in  the  ancient  inanor- 
hotise  near   it  (the  very  ruins  of  which   have  long  since  disap- 
peared), the  family  burying-place  was  in  the  vault  under  the 
Abbey  chapel.     Whether   in  those  remote  times  the  prediction 
against  us  was  known  and  dreaded  or  not.  this  much  is  certain: 
.  one  of  the  Monktons  (whether  living  at   the  Ahlx'v  or  on 
mailer  estate  in  Scotland)  was  buried  in  Wincot  vault,  no 
matter  at  what    risk  or  what  sacrifice.     In  the  fierce   fighting 
days  of  the  olden  time,  the  bodies  of  my  ancestors  who  fell  iu 
11  places  were   recovered  and  brought   hack    to  \Vincot, 
j;h  it  often  cost  not  heavy  ransom  only,  but  desperate  blood- 
shed as  well,  to  obtain  them.     This  superstition,  if  you  plea 
call  it  so,  lias  never  died  out  of  the  family  from  that  time  to  the 
at    day:    for  centuries   the   succession   of    the  dead    in  the 
vault  at  the  Abbey  has  been  unbroken — absolutely  unhro;. 
until  now.     The  place  mentioned  in  I  he  prediction  as  waiting  to 
be  tilled  is  Stephen  Monkton's  place;  the  voice  that  linly 

to  the  earth  for  shelter  is  the  spirit-  \  irely 

as  if  I  saw  it,  I  know  that  they  have  left  him  unburied  on  the 
ground  where  he  fell!'' 

He  stopped    me   before    I  could  utter  a    \\ord    in   renioi 

•wly  rising  to  his  feet,  and  pointing   in  the  same  dire. 
•trd  which  his  eyes  had  wandered  a  >hort  time  sin. 
"  1  can  guess  \\  hat  you  want  to  a>k  me,"  he  exclaimed, 


96  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

and  loudly;  "you  want  to  ask  me  how  I  can  be  mad  enough  to 
believe  in  a  doggerel  prophecy  uttered  in  an  age  of  superstition 
to  awe  the  most  ignorant  hearers.  I  answer  "  (at  those  words 
his  voice  sank  suddenly  to  a  whisper),  "I  answer  because 
Mcjificn-  Motiktoii  himself  xtantls  thereat  this  moment  confirm- 
ing me  in  my  belief." 

Whether  it  was  the  awe  and  horror  that  looked  out  ghastly 
from  his  face  as  he  confronted  me,  whether  it  was  that  I  had 
never  hitherto  fairly  believed  in  the  reports  about  his  madness, 
and  that  the  conviction  of  their  truth  now  forced  itself  upon  me 
on  a  sudden,  I  know  not,  but  1  felt  my  blood  curdling  as  he 
spoke;  and  I  knew  in  my  own  heart,  as  I  sat  there  speechless, 
that  I  dare  not  turn  round  and  look  where  he  was  still  pointing 
close  at  my  side. 

"  I  see  there,"  he  went  on,  in  the  same  whispering  voice,  "  the 
figure  of  a  dark-complexioned  man  standing  up  with  his  head 
uncovered.  One  of  his  hands,  still  clutching  a  pistol,  has  fallen 
to  his  side;  the  other  presses  a  bloody  handkerchief  over  his 
mouth.  The  spasm  of  mortal  agony  convulses  his  features;  but 
I  know  them  for  the  features  of  a  swarthy  man  who  twice 
frightened  me  by  taking  me  up  in  his  arms  when  I  was  a  child 
at  Wincot  Abbey.  I  asked  the  nurses  at  the  time  who  that  man 
was,  and  they  told  me  it  was  my  uncle,  Stephen  Monkton. 
Plainly,  as  if  he  stood  there  living,  I  see  him  now  at  your  side, 
with  the  death  glare  in  his  great  black  eyes;  and  so  have  I  ever 
seen  him,  since  the  moment  when  he  was  shot;  at  home  and 
abroad,  waking  or  sleeping,  day  and  night,  we  are  always  to- 
gether wherever  I  go!" 

His  whispering  tones  sank  into  almost  inaudible  murmuring 
as  he  pronounced  these  last  words.  From  the  direction  and  ex- 
pression of  his  eyes,  1  suspected  that  he  was  speaking  to  the  ap- 
parition. If  I  had  beheld  it  myself  at  that  moment,  it  would 
have  been,  I  think,  a  less  horrible  sight  to  witness  than  to  see 
him,  as  I  saw  him  now,  muttering  inarticulately  at  vacancy. 
My  own  nerves  were  more  shaken  than  I  could  have  thought 
possible  by  what  had  passed.  A  vague  dread  of  being  near  him 
in  his  present  mood  came  over  me,  and  I  moved  back  a  step  or 
two. 

He  noticed  the  action  instantly. 

"Don't  go!  pray — pray  don't  go!  Have  I  alarmed  you? 
Don't  you  believe  me?  Do  the  lights  make  your  eyes  ache?  I 
only  asked  you  to  sit  in  the  glare  of  the  candles  because  I  could 
not  bear  to  see  the  light  that  always  shines  from  the  phantom 
there  at  dusk  shining  over  you  as  you  sat  in  the  shadow.  Don't 
go— don't  leave  me  yet!" 

There  was  an  utter  forlornness,  an  unspeakable  misery  in  his 
face  as  he  spoke  these  words,  which  gave  me  back  my  self-pos- 
session by  the  simple  process  of  first  moving  me  to  pity.  1  re- 
sumed my  chair,  and  said  that  I  would  stay  with  him  as  long  as 
he  wished 

"Thank  you  a  thousand  times.  You  are  patience  and  kind- 
ness itself,"  he  said,  going  back  to  his  former  place  and  resuming 
his  former  gentleness  of  manner.  "  Now  that  I  have  got  over 


TB  97 

on  of  tin-  11  i  secret  wher- 

.   I    think   I   can    tell    you   Calmly  all  that  remains  fn  I*; 

nl.  my  rnde  Si  In- turned  away 

his  head    (puckly.  and    looked    down    at    the    table   us   the  name 

If    Stephen  came   twice  to  Wincot 

while  1  was  a  child,  and  on  both  occasions  frightened  me  di 
fulh  'dy  took    i  ML-   up  in   his  arms  and  spoke  to  me — very 

kindly,   as  I  afterward    heard,  for   linn — but   he    terrified   me, 
.     Perhaps  I  was  frightened  at  his  great  stature,  his 
iliv  complexion,  and  his  thick  black  hair  and  mustaei 
other  children  might  have  been;  perhaps  the  mere  sight  of  him 
had  some  Grange  influence  on  me  which  I  could  not  then  under- 
stand  and   cannot  now  explain.      However  it  was,    I  used   to 
dream  of  him  long  after  he  had  gone  away,  and  to  fancy  that 
he  was  stealing  on  me  to  catch  me  up  in  his  arms  whenever  1 
left  in  the  dark.     The  servants  who  took  care  of  me  found 
this  out,  and  used  to  threaten  me  with  my  Uncle  Stephen  when- 
ever 1  was  perverse  and  difficult  to  manage.     As  I  grew  up,  I 
still  retained  my  vague  dread  and  abhorrence  of  our  absent  rel- 
ative.    1  always  listened  intently,  yet  without  knowing  why, 
whenever  his  name  was  mentioned  by  my  father  or  my  mother 
—listened  with  an  unaccountable  presentiment  that  something 
ile  had  happened  to  him,  or  was  about  to  happen  tome. 
This  feeling  only  changed  when  1  was  left  alone  in  the  Abbey; 
and  then  it  seemed  to  merge  into  the  eager  curiosity   which  had 
begun  to  grow  on  me,  rather  before  that  time,  about  the  origin 
of  the  ancient  prophecy  predicting  the  extinction  of  our  race. 
Ar.-  you  folio  wing  me  r" 

•  1  follow  every  word  with  the  closest  attention." 
"You  must  know,  then,  that  I  had  first  found  out  some  frag- 
ments of  the  old  rhyme  in  which  the  prophecy  occurs  quoted  as 
'iriosity  in  an  antiquarian  book  in  the  library.  On  the  page 
op|K)site  this  quotation  had  been  pasted  a  rude  old  wood-cut, 
representing  a  dark-haired  man.  whose  face  was  so  strongly  like 
what  1  remembered  of  my  Uncle  Stephen  that  the  portrait  abso- 
lutely startled  me.  When  I  asked  my  father  about  this — it  was 
then  just  before  his  death — he  either  knew,  or  pretended  to 
know,  nothing  of  it;  and  when  I  afterward  mentioned  the  pre- 
diction he  fretfully  changed  the  subject.  It  was  just  the  same 
with  our  chaplain  when  I  spoke  to  him.  Ile  said  the  portrait 
had  been  done  centuries  before  my  uncle  was  born,  and  called 
the  prophecy  doggerel  and  nonsense.  I  used  to  argue  with  him 
on  the  i  int.  asking  why  we  Catholics,  who  believed  that 

the  gift  of   working   miracles  had  never  departed  from  certain 
fav  r-on-,  might   not  just  as    well  believe  that  the  gift 

iihecy  had  never  departed  either?     He  would  not  dispute  with 
he  would  only  say  that  1  must  not  waste  time  in  thinking 
of  such  trifles;  that  1  had  more  imagination   than   was  good  for 
and    must    >uppiv^  instead  of  exciting   it.     Such  as 

this  only  irritated  my  curiosity.     I  determined  secretly  to  search 
throughout  the  oldest  uninhabited  part  of  the  AbU-y,  and   try  if 

find  out  from  forgotten  f.-imih  what  n 

Iran  mil   when   the  prophecy  had  been  first  written  or  ut- 


98  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

tered.  Did  you  ever  pass  a  day  alone  in  the  long-deserted  cham- 
bers of  an  ancient  house?" 

"Never!  such  solitude  as  that  is  not  at  all  to  my  taste." 

"Ali!  what  a  life  it  was  when  I  began  my  search.  I  should 
like  to  live  it  over  again.  Such  tempting  suspense,  such  strange 
discoveries,  such  wild  fancies,  such  inthralling  terrors,  all  be- 
longed to  that  life.  Only  think  of  breaking  open  the  door  of  a 
room  which  no  living  soul  had  entered  before  you  for  nearly  a 
hundred  years;  think  of  the  first  step  forward  into  a  region  of 
airless,  awful  stillness,  where  the  light  falls  faint  and  sickly 
through  closed  windows  and  rotting  curtains;  think  of  the 
ghostly  creaking  of  the  old  floor  that  cries  out  on  you  for  tread- 
ing on  it,  step  as  softly  as  you  will;  think  of  arms,  helmets, 
weird  tapestries  of  by- gone  days,  that  seem  to  be  moving  out  on 
you  from  the  walls  as  you  first  walk  up  to  them  in  the  dim 
light;  think  of  prying  into  great  cabinets  and  iron-clasped 
chests,  not  knowing  what  horrors  may  appear  when  you  tear 
them  open;  of  poring  over  their  contents  till  twilight  stole  on 
you,  and  darkness  grew  terrible  in  the  lonely  place;  of  trying  to 
leave  it,  and  not  being  able  to  go,  as  if  something  held  you;  of 
wind  wailing  at  you  outside;  of  shadows  darkening  around  you, 
and  closing  you  up  in  obscurity  within — only  think  of  these 
things,  and  you  may  imagine  the  fascination  of  suspense  and 
terror  in  such  a  life  as  mine  was  in  those  past  days." 

(I  shrunk  from  imagining  that  life:  it  was  bad  enough  to  see 
its  results,  as  I  saw  them  before  me  now.) 

"Well,  my  search  lasted  months  and  months;  then  it  was 
suspended  a  little;  then  resumed.  In  whatever  direction  I  pur- 
sued it,  I  always  found  something  to  lure  me  on.  Terrible  con- 
fessions of  past  crimes,  shocking  proofs  of  secret  wickedness 
that  had  been  hidden  securely  from  all  eyes  but  mine,  came  to 
light.  Sometimes  these  discoveries  were  associated  with  par- 
ticular parts  of  the  Abbey,  which  have  had  a  horrible  interest  of 
their  own  for  me  ever  since;  sometimes  with  certain  old  por- 
traits in  the  picture-gallery,  which  I  actually  dreaded  to  look  at 
after  what  I  had  found  out.  There  were  periods  when  the  re- 
sults of  this  search  of  mine  so  horrified  me  that  T  determined  to 
give  it  up  entirely;  but  I  never  could  persevere  in  my  resolution; 
the  temptation  to  go  on  seemed  at  certain  intervals  to  get  too 
strong  for  me,  and  then  I  yielded  to  it  again  and  again.  At  last 
I  found  the  book  that  bad  belonged  to  the  monks  with  the  whole 
of  the  prophecy  written  in  the  blank  leaf.  This  first  success 
encouraged  me  to  get  back  further  yet  in  the  family  records.  I 
had  discovered  nothing  hitherto  of  the  identity  of  the  mysteri- 
ous portrait;  but  the  same  intuitive  conviction  which  had  as- 
sured me  of  its  extraordinary  resemblance  to  my  Uncle  Stephen 
seemed  also  to  assure  me  that  he  must  be  more  closely  connected 
with  the  prophecy,  and  must  know  more  of  it  than  any  one  else. 
I  had  no  means  of  holding  any  communication  with  him,  no 
means  of  satisfying  myself  whether  this  strange  idea  of  mine 
were  right  or  wrong,  until  the  day  when  my  doubts  were  settled 
forever  by  the  same  terrible  proof  which  is  now  present  to  me 
in  this  very  room," 


TIfV    QUEEN    OF    1II-:.\RTS.  99 

TTe  paused  for  ;i  moment,  and  looked  at  me  intently  and  sus- 
piciously: then  asked  if  I  believed  all  he  had  said  to  me  so  far. 
My  instant  reply  in  the  aflirmative  seemed  to  satisfy  his  doubts, 
and  he  weni 

"  On  a  fine  evening  in  February  I  was  standing  alone  in  one 
of,  the  1  rooms  of  the  western  turret  at  the  Abbey,  lopk- 

Jng  at  the  sunset.     Just  before  the  sun  went  down  I  frit  a  sensa- 
tion stealing  over  me  which  it  is  impossible  to  explain.     I  saw 
nothing,  heard  nothing,  knew  nothing.     This  utter  self-oblivion 
-uddenly;  it   was  not  fainting,  for  1   did    not  fall  to  the 
ground,  did  not  move  an  inch  from  my  place.     If  such  a  thing 

i ild  be,  I  should  say  it  was  the  temporary  separation  of  soul 
and  body  without  death;  but  alt  description  of  my  situation  at 
that  time  is  impossible.  Call  my  state  what  you  will,  trance  or 
catalepsy,  I  know  that  I  remained  standing  by  the  window  ut- 
ly  unconscious — dead,  mind  and  body — until  tho  sun  had  set. 
Then  I  came  to  my  senses  again;  and  then,  when  I  opened  my 

>-s,  there  was  the  apparition  of  Stephen  Monkton  standing  op- 
posite to  me,  faintly  luminous,  just  as  it  stands  opposite  me 
at  this  very  moment  by  your  side." 

"  Was  this  before  the  news  of  the  duel  reached  England?''  I 
asked. 

"  Two  weeks  before  the  news  of  it  reached  us  at  Wincot.  And 
even  when  we  heard  of  the  duel  we  did  not  hear  of  the  day  on 
which  it  was  fought.  I  only  found  that  out  when  the  docu- 
ment which  you  have  read  was  published  in  the  French  newspa- 
per. The  date  of  that  document,  you  will  remember,  is  Febru- 
ary 22d,  and  it  is  stated  that  the  duel  was  fought  twro  days  after- 
ward. I  wrote  down  in  rny  pocket-book  on  the  evening  when  I 
saw  the  phantom,  the  day  of  the  month  on  which  it  first  ap- 
peared to  me.  That  day  was  the  34th  of  February." 

He  paused  again,  as  if  expecting  me  to  say  something.  After 
the  words  he  had  just  spoken  what  could  f  say?  what  could  I 
think  ? 

"  Even  in  the  first  horror  of  first  seeing  the  apparition,"  he 
went  on,  "  the  prophecy  against  our  house  came  to  my  mind, 
and  with  it  the  conviction  that  I  beheld  before  me,  in  that  spec- 
tral presence,  the  warning  of  my  own  doom.  As  soon  as  I  re- 
covered a  little,  I  determined,  nevertheless,  to  test  the  reality  of 
what  I  saw;  to  find  out  whether  I  was  the  dupe  of  my  own  dis- ' 
eased  fancy  or  not.  I  left  the  turret;  the  phantom  left  it  with 
me.  I  made  an  excuse  to  have  the  drawing-room  at  the  Abbey 
brilliantly  lighted  up;  the  figure  was  still  opposite  me.  I  walked 
out  into  the  park;  it  was  there  in  the  clear  starlight.  I  went 
away  from  home,  and  traveled  many  miles  to  the  sea-side;  still 
the  tall  dark  man  in  his  death-agony  was  with  me.  After  this 
1  strove  against  the  fatality  n<>  more.  1  returned  to  the  Abl>ey, 
and  tried  to  iv.-L'ii  myself  to  my  mi-tr\.  Hut  this  was  nut 

I  had  a  hope  that  was  deanr  to  me  than  my  own  life;  1  had 
one  treasure  belonging  to  me  that  I  shuddered  at  the  prospect 
of  losing;  and  when  the  phantom  pn •-  <od  a  warning  ob- 

stacle between  me  and  this  one  treasure,  this  dearest  hope,  tl 

grew  heavier  than  I   roiild  bear.     You  mu-l    know 


100  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

what  I  am  alluding  to;  you  must  have  heard  often  that  I  was 
engaged  to  be  married  ?" 

"Yes,  often.  I  have  some  acquaintance  myself  with  Miss 
Elmslie." 

"You  never  can  know  all  that  she  has  sacrificed  for  me— 
never  can  imagine  what  I  have  felt  for  years  and  years  past " — 
his  voice  trembled,  and  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes— "but  I 
dare  not  trust  myself  to  speak  of  that;  the  thought  of  the  old 
happy  days  in  the  Abbey  almost  breaks  my  heart  now.  Let  me 
get  back  to  the  other  subject.  I  must  tell  you  that  I  kept  the 
frightful  vision  which  pursued  me,  at  all  times  and  in  all  places, 
a  secret  from  everybody,  knowing  the  vile  reports  about  my 
having  inherited  madness  from  my  family,  and  fearing  that  an 
unfair  advantage  would  be  taken  of  any  confession  that  I  might 
make.  Though  the  phantom  always  stood  opposite  to  me,  and 
therefore  always  appeared  either  before  or  by  the  side  of  any 
person  to  whom  I  spoke,  I  soon  schooled  myself  to  hide  from 
others  that  I  was  looking  at  it  except  on  rare  occasions,  when  I 
have  perhaps  betrayed  myself  to  you.  But  my  self-possession 
availed  me  nothing  with  Ada.  The  day  of  our  marriage  was 
approaching. 

He  stopped  and  shuddered.  I  waited  in  silence  till  he  had 
controlled  himself. 

"  Think,"  he  went  on,  "  think  of  what  I  must  have  suffered 
at  looking  always  on  that  hideous  vision  whenever  I  looked  on 
my  betrothed  wife!  Think  of  my  taking  her  hand,  and  seeming 
to  take  it  through  the  figure  of  the  apparition!  Think  of  the 
calm  angel-face  and  the  tortured  specter- face  being  always  to- 
gether whenever  my  eyes  met  hers!  Think  of  this,  and  you  will 
not  wonder  that  I  betrayed  my  secret  to  her.  She  eagerly  en- 
treated to  know  the  worst — nay,  more,  she  insisted  on  knowing 
it.  At  her  bidding  I  told  all,  and  then  left  her  free  to  break  our 
engagement.  The  thought  of  death  was  in  my  heart  as  I  spoke 
the  parting  words — death  by  my  own  act,  if  life  still  held  out 
after  our  separation.  She  suspected  that  thought;  she  knew  it, 
and  never  left  me  till  her  good  influence  had  destroyed  it  for- 
ever. But  for  her  I  should  not  have  been  alive  now:  but  for  her 
I  should  never  have  attempted  the  project  which  has  brought 
me  here." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  it  was  at  Miss  Eltnslie's  suggestion  that 
you  came  to  Naples  ?"  I  asked,  in  amazement. 

"I  mean  that  what  she  said  suggested  the  design  which  has 
brought  me  to  Naples,"  he  answered.  "While  I  believed  that 
the  phantom  had  appeared  to  me  as  the  fatal  messenger  of  death, 
there  was  no  comfort — there  was  misery,  rather,  in  hearing  her 
Bay  that  no  power  on  earth  should  make  her  desert  me,  and  that 
she  would  live  for  me,  and  for  me  only,  through  every  trial. 
But  it  was  far  different  when  we  afterward  reasoned  together 
about.  I  lie  purpose  which  the  apparition  had  come  to  fulfill— far 
different  when  she  showed  me  that  its  mission  might  be  for  goo  i 
instead  of  for  evil,  and  that  the  warning  it  was  sent  to  ^ivc 
might  be  to  my  profit  instead  of  to  my  loss.  At  those  W( 
the  new  idea  which  gave  the  new  hope  of  life  came  to  me  i> 


'ill  TS.  101 

i,  what  I  believe  DOW,  that  I  have  a  BU- 

int  for  my  errand  here.     In  that  faith  I  live; 

without  it  I  should  die.     Hlie  never  ?i<Mcul-d  it.  never  Boomed  it 

rk  what  I  say!    TIu   sp/ri,   >ln'-  ap; 

in  tii.  never  left   me  bince— that   stands! 

our  side,  warns  me  t<>  - -^  ap>  from  the  *V 

nr  rare,  and  command^  I>K>,  if  I  wo'uld  'av< 
i  he  unburied  dead.     Mortal  loves  and  mortal  interests  must 
that  awful   bidding.     The  specter-presence  will  never 
me  till  I  have  sheltered  the  corpse  that  cries  to  the  • 

it!    I  dare  not  return — I  dare  not  marry  till  I  have  filled 
lace  that  is  empty  in  Wincot  vault." 

His  eyes  Hashed  and  dilated— his  voice  deepened — a  fanatic 
ecstasy  shone   in  his   expression    as   he   uttered    these  words. 
Shocked  and  grieved  as  I  was,  I  made  no  attempt  to  remon- 
or  to  reason  with  him.     It  would  have  been  useless  to 
I  to  any  of  the  usual  commonplaces  about  optical 
delusions  or  diseased  imaginations— worse  than  useless  to  have 
upted  to  account  bv  natural  causes  for  any  of  the  extraor- 
dinarv  coincidences  and  events  of  which  he  had  spoken.  Briefly 
as  he'h::d   referred  to  Miss  Eluislie,  he  had  said  enough  to  show 
me  that   the  only  hope  of  the  poor  girl  who  loved  him  best  and 
had   known  him  longest  of  any  one  was  in  humoring  his  delu- 
sions to  the  last.     How  faithfully  she  still  clung  to  the  belief 
that  she  could  restore  him!    How  resolutely  was  she  sacrificing 
If  to  his  morbid  fancies,  in  the  hope  of  a  happy  future  that 
might  never  come!    Little  as  I  knew  of  Miss  Elmslie,  the  mere 
thought  of  her  situation,  as  I  now  reflected  on  it,  made  me  feel 

it  heart. 

"  They  c.ill  me  Mad  Monkton!"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly  break- 
ing the  silence  between  us  during  the  last  few  minutes.  "  Here 
and  in  England  everybody  believes  I  am  out  of  my  senses  e-\ 
Ada  and  you.  She  has  been  my  salvation,  and  you  will  be  my 
salvation  too.  Something  told  me  that  when  I  first  met  you 
walking  in  the  Villa  Reale.  1  struggled  against  the  strong  de- 
sire that  was  in  me  to  trust  my  secret  to  you,  but  I  could  resist 
when  1  saw  you  to-night  at  the  ball:  the  phantom 
•  d  to  draw  me  on  to  you  as  you  stood  alone  in  the  quiet 
room.  Tell  me  more  of  that  idea  of  yours  about  finding  the 
place  where  the  duel  was  fought.  If  I  set  out  to-morr 

tor  it  myself,  where  must  I  go  first?  where?"     He  stopped; 

trength  was  evidently  becoming  exhausted,  and  his  mind 

confused.    ••  What  am  I  to  do?    lean  uln-r. 

know  e\.-r\  thing — will  you  not  help  me?     My  mi -cry  has 

made  me  unable  to  help  my-elf."1 

II.-  MopjKMl,  murmured  something  about  failing  if  he  wei 
the   frontier   alone,  and   spoke  confusedly  of  delays  that  n 
ital.  then    tried    to  utter   the   nam.  la:"   but,  in 

nouncing   the  first    letter,  his   voice    faltered,  and,  turning  ab- 
ruptly from  me,  he  burst  into  t» 

pity  for  him   got    the  better  of  my  piudeiiee  at  that 
ment,  and,  without   thinking  of  responsibilities  1    promi^ 

lo  do  for  him  whatever  he  asked.     The  wild  triumph  ill  hU 


QUEEN   OF   HEARTS. 

expression  as  he  slnrtod  up  mid  seized  my  hand,  showed  me  that 
I  had  better  have  been  .more  cautious;  but  it  was  too  late  now 
to  retrac'-i  what  I  ha<J  .said.:  The  next  best  thing  to  do  was  to 
try  if  I -could,  riot  irVmcc  4iim  to  compose  himself  a  little,  and 
then  to.gQ.away  and  think  coolly  over  the  whole  affair  by  my- 

i  r  ."..*'•'"  •        •        *      * 

ydL  ,,-,.<*..;         •    • 

"  Yes,  •yesj'^'he*  *e  joined,  in*  answer  to  the  few  words  I  now 
spoke  to  try  and  calm  him,  "  don't  be  afraid  about  me.  After 
what  you  have  said,  I'll  answer  for  my  own  coolness  and  com- 
posure under  all  emergencies.  I  have  been  so  long  used  to  the 
apparition  that  I  hardly  feel  its  presence  at  all  except  on  rare 
occasions.  Besides,  I  have  here,  in  this  little  packet  of  letters, 
the  medicine  for  every  malady  of  the  sick  heart.  They  are 
Ada's  letters;  I  read  them  to  calm  me  whenever  my  misfortune 
seems  to  get  the  better  of  my  endurance.  I  wanted  that  half 
hour  to  read  them  in  to-night  before  you  came,  to  make  myself 
fit  to  see  you,  and  I  shall  go  through  them  again  after  you  are 
gone;  s-'o,  once  more,  don't  be  afraid  about  me.  I  know  I  shall 
succeed  with  your  help,  and  Ada  shall  thank  you  as  you  deserve 
to  be  thanked  when  we  get  back  to  England.  If  you  hear  the 
fools  at  Naples  talk  about  my  being  mad,  don't  trouble  yourself 
to  contradict  them;  the  scandal  is  so  contemptible  that  it  must 
eud  by  contradicting  itself." 

I  left  him,  promising  to  return  early  the  next  day. 

When  I  got  back  to  my  hotel,  I  felt  that  any  idea  of  sleeping 
after  all  that  I  had  seen  and  heard  was  out  of  the  question;  so  I 
lit  my  pipe,  and,  sitting  by  the  window — how  it  refreshed  my 
mind  just  then  to  look  at  the  calm  moonlight! — tried  to  think 
what  it  would  be  best  to  do.  In  the  first  place,  any  appeal  to 
doctors  or  to  Alfred's  friends  in  England  was  out'  of  the  ques- 
tion. I  could  not  persuade  myself  that  his  intellect  was  suf- 
ficiently disordered  to  justify  me,  under  existing  circumstances, 
in  disclosing  the  secret  which  he  had  intrusted  to  my  keep- 
ing. In  the  second  place,  all  attempts  on  my  part  to  induce 
him  to  abandon  the  idea  of  searching  out  his  uncle's  remains 
would  be  utterly  useless  after  what  I  had  incautiously  said  to 
him.  Having  settled  these  two  conclusions,  the  only  really  great 
difficulty  which  remained  to  perplex  me  was  whether  I  was  jus- 
tified in  aiding  him  to'  execute  his  extraordinary  purpose. 

Supposing  that,  with  my  help,  he  found  Mr.  Monkton's  body, 
and  took  it  back  with  him  to  England,  was  it  right  in  me  thus  to 
lend  myself  to  promoting  the  marriage  which  would  most  likely 
follow  these  events — a  marriage  which  it  might  be  the  duty  of 
every  one  to  prevent  at  all  hazards?  This  set  me  thinking  about 
the  extent  of  his  madness,  or  to  speak  more  mildly  and  more 
correctly,  of  his  delusion.  Sane  he  certainly  was  on  all  ordinary 
subjects;  nay,  in  all  the  narrative  parts  of  what  he  had  said  to 
me  on  this  very  evening,  he  had  spoken  clearly  and  connectedly. 
As  for  the  story  of  the  apparition,  other  men,  with  intellects  as 
clear  as  the  intellects  of  their  neighbors,  had  fancied  them- 
selves pursued  by  a  phantom,  and  had  even  written  about  it  in 
a  high  strain  of  philosophical  speculation.  It  was  plain  that  the 
real  hallucination,  in  the  case  now  before  me  lay  in  Monkton's 


77  V    OF    HKMlTS.  103 

conviction  of  the  trulli  of  the  old  prophecy,  and  in  his  idea  that 
the  fancied  apparition  was  a  supernatural  warning  to  him  to 
evade  it->  denunciations ;  and  it  was  equally  cli  lx>th  de- 

lusions had  been  produced,  in  the  first  instance,  by  the  lonely 
life  lie  had  led  acting  on  a  naturally  excitable  temperament, 
which  was  rendered  further  liable  to  moral  disease  by  an  hered- 
itary taint  of  insanity. 

\\.is  this  curable?  Miss  Elmslie,  who  knew  him  far  better 
than  I  did,  seemed  by  her  conduct  to  think  so.  Had  I  any  rea- 
son or  right  to  determine  off-hand  that  she  was  mistaken  ?"  Sup- 
posing I  refused  to  go  to  the  frontier  with  him,  he  would  then 
most  certainly  depart  by  himself,  to  commit  all  sorts  of  errors, 
and  perhaps  to  meet  with  all  sorts  of  accidents;  while  I,  an  idle 
man,  with  my  time  entirely  at  my  own  disposal;  was  stopping 
at  Naples,  and  leaving  him  to  his  fate  after  I  had  suggested  the 
plan  of  his  expedition,  and  had  encouraged  him  to  confide  in 
me.  In  this  way  I  kept  turning  the  subject  over  and  over  again 
in  my  mind,  being  quite  free,  let  me  add,  from  looking  at  it  in 
any  other  than  a  practical  point  of  view.  I  firmly  believed,  as 
a  aerider  of  all  ghost  stories,  that  Alfred  was  deceiving  hin 
in  fancying  he  had  seen  the  apparition  of  his  uncle  before  the 
news  ot  Mr.  Monkton's  death  reached  England,  and  I  was  on 
this  account,  therefore,  uninfluenced  by  the  slightest  infection 
of  my  unhappy  friend's  delusions  when  I  at  last  fairly  decided 
to  accompany  him  in  his  extraordinary  search.  Possibly  my 
harum-scarum  fondness  for  excitement  at  that  time  biased  me 
a  little  in  forming  my  resolution;  but  I  must  add,  in  common 
justice  to  myself,  that  I  also  acted  from  motives  of  real  sym- 
pathy for  Monkton,  and  from  a  sincere  wish  to  allay,  if  I  could, 
the  anxiety  of  the  poor  girl  who  was  still  so  faithfully  waiting 
and  hoping  for  him  far  away  in  England. 

Certain  arrangements  preliminary  to  our  departure,  which  J 
found  myself  obliged  to  make  after  a  second  interview  with  Al- 
fred, betrayed  the  object  of  our  journey  to  most  of  our  Neapol- 
itan friends.  The  astonishment  of  everybody  was  of  course  un- 
bounded, and  the  nearly  universal  suspicion  that  I  must  be  as 
mad  in  my  way  as  Monkton  himself,  showed  itself  pretty  plainly 
in  my  presence.  Some  people  actually  tried  to  combat  my  reso- 
lution by  telling  me  what  a  shameless  profligate  Stephen  Monk- 
ton  had  been — as  if  I  had  a  strong  personal  interest  in  hunting 
out  his  remains!  Ridicule  moved  me  as  little  as  any  arguments 
of  this  sort;  my  mind  was  made  up,  and  I  was  as  ol  then 

as  I  am  now. 

In  two  days'  time  1  had  got  everything  ready,  and  had  ordered 
the  traveling  carriage  to  the  door  some  hours  earlier  than  we 
bad  origin/illy  settled.  \Ye  were  jovially  threatened  with  "  a 
parting  cheer "  by  all  our  English  acquaint  nd  I  thought 

-irable   to   a\oid    this   on   my    frien  nut;   for   he   had 

•-cit.-d.  ,i  .  hy  the    preparations    for  the  jour- 

han  I  at  all  liked.     According  with- 

out a  soul  in  the  Mr.  .  ly  left 

Nobody   will   wonder,  1   think,  that    T   exp'-ri-  ; 
culty   in  realizing  my  own   pM-ition,  and  shrunk    instinct 


104  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

from  looking  forward  a  single  day  into  the  future,  Avhen  I  now 
found  myself  starting,  in  company  with  "Mad  Monkton,"  to 
hunt  for  the  body  of  a  dead  duelist  all  along  the  frontier  line  of 
the  Roman  States! 


CHAPTER  V. 

1  HAD  settled  it  in  my  mind  that  we  had  better  make  tt)6  town 
of  Fondi,  close  on  the  frontier,  our  headquarters,  to  begin  with, 
and  I  had  arranged,  with  the  assistance  of  the  embassy,  that 
the  leaden  coffin  should  follow  us  so  far,  securely  nailed^ up  in  its 
packing  case.  Besides  our  passports,  we  were  well  -!axmished 
with  letters  of  introduction  to  the  local  authorities  afc  most  of 
the  important  frontier  towns,  and,  to  crown  all.  we  had  money 
enough  at  our  command  (thanks  to  Monkton's  vast  fortune)  to 
make  sure  of  -the  services  of  any  one  whom  we  wanted  to  assist 
us  all  along  our  line  of  search.  These  various  resources  insured 
us  every  facility  for  action,  provided  always  that  we  succeeded 
in  discovering  the  body  of  the  dead  duelist.  But,  in  the  very 
probable  event  of  our  failing  to  do  this,  our  future  prospects- 
more  especially  after  the  responsibility  I  had  undertaken — were 
of  anything  but  an  agreeable  nature  to  contemplate.  I  confess 
I  felt  uneasy,  almost  hopeless,  as  we  posted,  in  the  dazzling 
Italian  sunshine,  along  the  road  to  Fondi. 

We  made  an  easy  two  days'  journey  of  it;  for  1  had  insisted, 
on  Monkton's  account,  that  we  should  travel  slowly. 

On  the  first  day  the  excessive  agitation  of  my  companion  a 
little  alarmed  me;  he  showed,  in  many  ways,  more  symptoms 
of  a  disordered  mind  than  I  had  yet  observed  in  him.  On  the 
second  day,  however,  he  seemed  to  get  accustomed  to  contem- 
plate calmly  the  new  idea  of  the  search  on  which  we  were  bent, 
and,  except  on  one  point,  he  was  cheerful  and  composed  enough. 
Whenever  his  dead  uncle  formed  the  subject  of  conversation,  he 
still  persisted— on  the  strength  of  the  old  prophecy,  and  under 
the  influence  of  the  apparition  which  he  saw,  or  thought  he  saw 
always — in  asserting  that  the  corpse  of  Stephen  Monkton,  wher- 
ever it  was,  lay  yet  unburied.  On  every  other  topic  he  deferred 
to  me  with  the  utmost  readiness  and  docility;  on  this  he  main- 
tained his  strange  opinion  with  an  obstinacy  which  set  reason 
and  persuasion  alike  at  defiance. 

On  the  third  day  we  rested  at  Fondi.  The  packing-case,  with 
the  coffin  in  it,  reached  us,  and  was  deposited  in  a  safe  place 
under  lock  and  key.  We  engaged  some  mules,  and  found  a  man 
to  act  as  guide  who  knew  the  country  thoroughly.  It  occurred 
to  me  that  we  had  better  begin  by  confiding  the  real  object  of 
our  journey  only  to  the  most  trustworthy  people  we  could  find 
among  the  better- educated  classes.  For  this  reason,  we  fol- 
lowed, in  one  respect,  the  example  of  the  fatal  dueling  party,  by 
starting,  early  on  the  morning  of  the  fourth  day,  with  sketch- 
books and  color-boxes,  as  if  we  were  only  artists  in  search  of 
the  picturesque. 

After  traveling  some  hours  in  a  northerly  direction  within 


THE    QUEEN    Ohl    111 

tho  Roman  frontier,  we  halted  to  rest   our-  <I  our  mules 

;il  a  wild  little  village  far  out  of  the  tr;i<  k  of  1<  .TM!. 

The  only  person  of  the  smallest  importance  in    the  p 
the    i  iid  to  him  I  addressed   my   first   inqur  <ving 

Monkton  to  await  my  return  with  the  guide.     I  spoke   Italian 
quite   fluently,  and  correctly  enough  for  my   purpose,  aii'l 

mely  polite  and  cautious  in  introducing  my  ousiness,  l>ut, 
in  spit*- of  all  the  pains  I  took,  I  only  succeeded  in  frightening 
and  bewildering  tlie  poor  priest  more  and  more  with  every  fresh 
word  I  said  to  him.  The  idea  of  a  dueling  party  and  a  dead 
man  seemed  to  scare  him  out  of  his  senses.  He  bowed,  fidgeted, 
cast  his  eyes  up  to  Heave"n.  and,  piteously  shrugging  his  shoul- 
told  me,  with  rapid  Italian  circumlocution,  that  he  hud 
not  the  faintest  idea  of  \vhat  I  was  talking  about.  This  \\ -a 
first  failure.  I  confess  I  was  weak  enough  to  feel  a  little  dispirit- 
ed when  I  rejoined  Monkton  and  the  guide. 

After  the  heat  of  the  day  was  over  we  resumed  our  journey. 

About  three  miies  from  the  village,  the  road,  or  rather 
track,  branched  off  in  two  directions.  The  path  to  the  right, 
our  guide  informed  us,  led  us  up  among  the  mountains  to  a 
convent  about  six  miles  off.  If  we  penetrated  beyond  the  con- 
vent we  should  soon  reach  the  Neapolitan  frontier.  The  path 
to  the  left  led  far  inward  on  the  Roman  territory,  and  would 
conduct  us  to  a  small  town  where  we  could  sleep  for  the  night. 
Now  the  Roman  territory  presented  the  first  and  fittest  field  for 
our  search,  and  the  convent  was  always  within  reach,  suppos- 
ing we  returned  to  Fondi  unsuccessful.  Besides,  the  path  to  tho 
left  led  over  the  wildest  part  of  the  country  we  were  starting  to 
explore,  and  I  was  always  for  vanquishing  the  greatest  difficulty 
first;  so  we  decided  manfully  on  turning  to  the  left.  The  expe- 
dition in  which  this  resolution  involved  us  lasted  a  whole  week, 
and  produced  no  results.  We  discovered  absolutely  nothing, 
and  returned  to  our  headquarters  at  Fondi  so  completely  baffled 
that  we  did  not  know  whither  to  turn  our  steps  next. 

I  was  made  mueh  more  uneasy  by  the  effect  of  our  failure  on 
Monkton  th;u»  by  the  failure  itself.  His  resolution  appeared  to 
break  down  altogether  as  soon  as  we  began  to  retrace  our  si 
He  became  first  fretful  and  capricious,  then  silent  and  despond- 
ing. Finally,  he  sank  into  a  lethargy  of  body  and  mind  that 
usly  alarmed  me.  On  the  morning  after  our  return  to 
Fondi  he  showed  a  strange  tendency  to  sleep  incessantly,  which 
made  ni"  suspect  the  existence  of  some  physical  malady  in  his 
brain.  The  whole  day  he  hardly  exchanged  a  word  with  me. 
and  seemed  to  l>o  never  fairly  awake.  Karly  the  next  morning 
•it  into  his  room,  and  found  him  as  silent  and  lethargic  as 
ever,  li  mt,  who  was  with  us,  informe>l  UK- that  Alfred 

had"  twice   before  exhibited    such   physical  sympton 

mental  exhaustion  as  we  were  now  ol-ervmg  during  his  father's 
lifetime  at  Win  cut  AbU-y.     This  pieee  of    information  made  me 
r,  and  left  my  mind  free   to    return  i.itiou  of 

•rrand  which  had  brought  us  to  Fondi. 

I  resolved  to  occupy  the  time   until   my  companion  g 
in  prosecuting  our  search  by  myself.     That  path  to  the  right 


106  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

which  led  to  the  convent  had  not  yet  been  explored.  If  I  had 
set  of  to  trace  it,  I  need  not  be  away  from  Monkton  more  than 
one  night,  and  I  should  at  least  be  able  on  my  return,  to  give 
him  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  one  more  uncertainty  re- 
garding the  place  of  the  duel  had  been  cleared  up.  These  con- 
siderations decided  me.  I  left  a  message  for  my  friend,  in  case 
he  asked  where  I  had  gone,  and  set  out  once  more  for  the  vil- 
lage at  which  he  had  halted  when  starting  on  our  first  expedi- 
tion. 

Intending  to  walk  to  the  convent,  I  parted  company  with  the 
guide  and  the  mules  where  the  track  branched  off,  leaving  them 
to  go  back  to  the  village  and  await  my  return. 

For  the  first  four  miles  the  path  gently  ascended  through  an 
open  country,  then  became  abruptly  much  steeper,  and  led  me 
deeper  and  deeper  among  thickets  and  endless  woods.  By  the 
time  my  \vatch  informed  me  that  I  must  have  nearly  walked 
my  appointed  distance,  the  view  was  bounded  on  all  sides  and 
the  sky  was  shut  out  overhead  by  an  impervious  screen  of  leaves 
and  branches.  I  still  followed  my  only  guide,  the  steep  path: 
and  in  ten  minutes,  emerging  suddenly  on  a  plot  of  tolerably 
clear  and  level  ground,  I  saw  the  convent  before  me. 

It  was  a  dark,  low,  sinister-looking  place.  Not  a  sign  of  life 
or  movement  was  visible  anywhere  about  it.  Green  stains 
streaked  the  once  white  facade  of  the  chapel  in  all  directions. 
Moss  clustered  thick  in  every  crevice  of  the  heavy,  scowling 
wall  that  surrounded  the  convent.  Long  lank  weeds  grew  out 
of  the  fissures  of  roof  and  parapet,  and,  drooping  far  downward, 
waved  wearily  in  and  out  of  the  barred  dormitory  windows. 
The  very  cross  opposite  the  entrance- gate,  with  a  shocking  life- 
size  figure  in  wood  nailed  to  it,  was  so  beset  at  the  base  with 
crawling  creatures,  and  looked  so  slimy,  green,  and  rotten  all 
the  way  up,  that  I  absolutely  shrank  from  it. 

A  bell-rope  with  a  broken  handle  hung  by  the  gate.  I  ap- 
proached it — hesitated,  I  hardly  knew  why — looked  up  at  the 
convent  again,  and  then  walked  round  to  the  back  of  the  build- 
ing, partly  to  gain  time  to  consider  what  I  had  better  do  next, 
partly  from  an  unaccountable  curiosity  that  urged  me,  strangely 
to  myself,  to  see  all  I  could  of  the  outside  of  the  place  before  I 
attempted  to  gain  admission  at  the  gate. 

At  the  back  of  the  convent  I  found  an  out-house  built  on  to 
the  wall — a  clumsy,  decayed  building,  with  the  greater  part  of 
the  roof  fallen  in,  and  with  a  jagged  hole  in  one  of  its  sides, 
where  in  all  probability  a  window  had  once  been.  Behind  the 
out-house  the  trees  grew  thicker  than  ever.  As  I  looked  toward 
them  I  could  not  determine  whether  the  ground  beyond  me  rose 
or  fell — whether  it  was  grassy,  or  earthy,  or  rocky.  1  could  see 
nothing  but  the  all- pervading  leaves,  brambles,  ferns,  and  long 
grass. 

Not  a  sound  broke  the  oppressive  stillness.  No  bird's  note  rose 
from  the  leafy  wild  ness  around  me;  no  voices  spoke  in  the  con- 
vent garden  behind  the  scowling  wall;  no  clock  struck  in  the 
chapel-tower;  no  dog  barked  in  the  ruined  out-house.  The  dead 
silence  deepened  the  solitude  of  the  place  inexpressibly.  I  began 


1(17 

to   feel  it  w<  on  my    spirit^  — the    more,  oods 

were  with   n  ilk  in.     The  sort  of 

>ral    happiness  which  poets  often  represent  when  \ 

of  lift-  in  flic  wood>    never,  (o   my  mind,  has   had    the  char 

>n    the  mountain  or  in  the  plain.      When  I  am  in  a 

i  lie  boundless  loveliness  of  the  sky,  and  the  delici 

ithly    view    beneath.     I  feel 

oppressively  the  change  which  the  free  air  suffers  when  it 
imprisoned  among  leaves,  and  I  am  always  awed,  rather  than 
•  •d.  by  that  mysterious  still  light  which  shines  with  such  a 
strange  dim  luster  in  deep  places  among  trees.  It  may  convict 
i  want  of  taste  and  absence  of  due  feeling  for  the  marvelous 
beauties  of  vegetation,  but  1  must  frankly  own  that  I  never 
penetrate  far  into  a  wood  without  finding  that  the  getting  out 
of  it  again  is  the  pleasantest  part  of  my  walk — the  getting  out 
on  to  the  barest  down,  the  wildest  hillside,  the  bleakest  mount- 
ain top— the  getting  out  anywhere,  so  that  I  can  see  the  sky 

1  the  view  before  me  as  far  as  my  eye  can  reach. 
After  such  a  confession  as  I  have  now  made,  it  will  ap 
surprising  to  no  one  that  I  should  have  felt  the  strongest  possible 
inclination,  while  I  stood  by  the  ruined  out-house,  to  retrace  my 
at  once,  and  make  the  best  of  my  way  out  of  the  wood.    I 
had,  indeed,  actually  turned  to  depart,  when  the  remembrance 
of  the  errand   winch  had  brought  me  to  the  convent  suddenly 
stayed  my  feet.     It  seemed  doubtful  whether  I  should  be  ad- 
mitted into  the   building  if   I   rang  the   bell;  and    more   than 
doubtful,  if  I  were  let  in,  whether  the  inhabitants  would  be  able 
to  afford  me  any  clew  to  the  information  of  which  I  was  in 
h.    However,  it  was  my  duty  to  Monkton  to  leave  no  means 
of  helping  him  in  his  desperate  object  untried;  so  I  resolved  to 
go  round  to  the  front  of  the  convent  again,  and  ring  at  the  gate- 
U-ll  at  all  hazards. 

By  the  merest  chance  I  looked  up  as  I  passed  the  side  of  the 
house  where  the  jagged  hole  was,  and  noticed  that  it  was  pierced 
rather  high  in  the  wall. 

As  I  stopped  to  observe  this,  the  closeness  of  the  atmosphere  in 
the  wood  seemed  to  be  affecting  me  more  unpleasantly  than 

1  waited  a  minute  and  untied  my  cravat. 

( 'lose  i  less'.'  surely  it  was  something  more   than  that.     The  air 
was  even   more  di-tasteful    to    my  nostrils  than    to    my    h. 
Then  me  faint,  indescribable  smell  loading  it      -oine  Miiell 

of  which  I  had  never  had  any  previous   experience  mell 

which  1  thought  (now  that  my  attention  was  directed  to  it ) 

and  ni'  inly  traceable  to  its  M)i:rce  the  I   ad- 

vanced to  the  otit-h< 

By  the  time  I  had  tried    the  experiment  t  mes, 

and  hail  made  my-. -If  sure  of  this  fact,  my  curi 
cited.      There  were  plenty  of  fra-in.-nts  of  stone   and  brick  King 
about  me.      1  gathered   some  of   them    together,  and    piled    them 
up   below   the    hole,  then    mounted   the    top.  and    feeling   rather 
ashamed  of  what  1  was  doing,  peeped  into  the  out-hoi! 

The  sight  of   horror  that  met  my  in- instant  1    k» 


H)8  77 /A;   <,»r  A' AW  0-P  11  MARTS. 

through  the  hole  is  as  present  to  my  memory  now  as  if  I  had 
beheld  it  yesterday.  I  can  hardly  write  of  it  at  this  distance  of 
time  without  a  thrill  of  the  old  terror  running  through  me  again 
to  the  heart. 

The  lirst  impression  conveyed  to  me,  as  I  looked  in,  was  of  a 
long  recumbent  object,  tinged  with  a  lightish  blue  color  all 
over,  extended  on  trestles,  and  bearing  a  certain  hideous,  half- 
formed  resemblance  to  the  human  face  and  figure.  1  looked 
again,  and  felt  certain  of  it.  There  were  the  prominences  of  thf 
forehead,  nose,  and  chin,  dimly  shown  as  under  a  veil — there, 
the  round  outline  of  the  chest  and  the  hollow  below  it — there, 
the  points  of  the  knees,  and  the  stiff,  ghastly,  upturned  feet.  I 
looked  again,  yet  more  attentively.  My  eyes  got  accustomed  to 
the  dim  light  streaming  in  through  the  broken  roof,  and  I  sat- 
isfied myself,  judging  by  the  great  length  of  the  body  from  head 
to  foot,  that  I  was  looking  at  the  corpse  of  a  man — a  corpse  that 
had  apparently  once  had  a  sheet  spread  over  it,  and  that  had 
lain  rotting  on  the  trestles  under  the  open  sky  long  enough  for 
the  linen  to  take  the  livid,  light-blue  tinge  of  mildew  and  decay 
which  now  covered  it. 

How  long  I  remained  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  that  dread  sight 
of  death,  on  that  tombless,  terrible  wreck  of  humanity,  poisoning 
the  still  air,  and  seeming  even  to  stain  the  faint  descending  light 
that  disclosed  it,  I  know  not.  I  remember  a  dull,  distant  sound 
among  the  trees,  as  if  the  breeze  were  rising — the  slow  creeping 
on  of  the  «ound  to  near  the  place  where  I  stood — the  noiseless 
whirling  of  a  dead  leaf  on  the  corpse  below  me,  through  the  gap 
in  the  out-house  roof — and  the  effect  of  awakening  my  energies, 
of  relaxing  the  heavy  strain  on  my  mind,  which  even  the  slight 
change  wrought  in  the  scene  I  beheld  by  the  falling  leaf  pro- 
duced in  me  immediately.  I  descended  to  the  ground,  and  sit- 
ting down  on  the  heap  of  stones,  wioed  away  the  thick  perspira- 
tion which  covered  my  face,  and  which  I  now  became  aware  of 
for  the  first  time.  It  was  something  more  than  the  hideous  spec- 
tacle unexpectedly  offered  to  my  eyes  which  had  shaken  my 
nerves  as  I  felt  that  they  were  shaken  now.  Monkton's  predic- 
tion that,  if  we  succeeded  in  discovering  his  uncle's  body,  we 
should  find  it  unburied,  recurred  to  me  the  instant  I  saw  the 
trestles  and  their  ghastly  burden.  I  felt  assured  on  the  instant 
that  I  had  found  the  dead  man — the  old  prophecy  recurred  to 
my  memory — a  strange  yearning  sorrow,  a  vague  foreboding  oi 
ill,  an  inexplicable  terror,  as  I  thought  of  the  poor  lad  who  was 
awaiting  my  return  in  the  distant  town,  struck  through  me  witli 
a  chill  of  superstitious  dread,  robbed  me  of  my  judgment  and 
resolution,  and  left  me,  when  I  had  at  last  recovered  myself, 
weak  and  dizzy,  as  if  I  had  just  suffered  under  some  pang  of 
overpowering  physical  pain. 

I  hastened  around  to  the  convent  gate  and  rang  impatiently  at 
the  bell — waited  a  little  while,  and  rang  again — then  heard  foot- 
steps. 

In  the  middle  of  the  gate,  just  opposite  my  face,  there  was  a 
small  sliding  panel,  not  more  than  a  few  inches  long;  this  was 
presently  pushed  aside  from  within.  I  saw,  through  a  bit  of  iron 


///•:.  I//. 

Crating,  two  dull,  light  staring  vacantly  at  me,  aim 

ile,  husky  voice  Bayii 
e  to  \vai 
'•  1  :IIM   ;i  r "  I  began. 

"  \\  in  a  miserable  place.    We  have  nothing  to  ahow 

"Id'S    here." 

"  I  don't  come  to  see  anything.    I  have  an  important 
;o  ask,  which  I  believe  some  one  in  this  convent  will  l>e  able  to 

r.     It'  you  are  not  willing  to  let  me  in,  at  least  com. 
ami  speak  to  me  here." 

"Are  you  alone?" 

"Quite  alone." 

"  Are  there  no  women  with  you  ?" 

"None." 

The  gate  was  slowly  unbarred,  and  an  old  Capuchin,  very  in- 
firm, very  suspicious,  and  very  dirty,  stood  before  inc.  1 
far  too  excited  and  impatient  to  waste  any  tim  •  in  prefatory 
phrases;  so,  telling  the  monk  at  once  how  1  had  looked  through 
[lie  hole  in  the  out- house,  and  what  I  had  seen  inside,  1  asked  him. 
in  plain  terms,  who  the  man  hud  been  whose  corpse  I  had  beheld, 
ana  why  the  lx>dy  was  left  unburied  ? 

The  old  Capuchin  listened  to  me  with  watery  eyes  that  twinkled 
suspiciously.  He  had  a  battered  tin  snuff-box  in  his  hand,  and 
his  linger  and  thumb  slowly  chased  a  few  scattered  grains  of 
snuff  round  and  round  the  inside  of  the  box  all  the  lime  I  was 
speaking.  When  I  had  done,  he  shook  his  head  and  said,  "That 
was  certainly  an  ugly  sight  in  their  out-house:  one  of  the  ugliest 
sights,  he  felt  sure,  that  ever  I  had  seen  in  all  my  life!" 

"I  don't  want  to  talk  of  the  sight,"  I  rejoined,  impatiently; 
"  I  want  to  know  who  the  man  was,  how  he  died,  and  why  he  is 
not  decently  buried.  Can  you  tell  me  ?" 

The  monk's  finger  and  thumb  having  captured  three  or  four 
grains  of  snuff  at  last,  he  slowly  drew  them  into  his  nostrils, 
holding  the  box  open  under  his  nose  the  while,  to  prevent  the 
.  bility  of  wasting  even  one  grain,  sniffed  once  or  twice  luxu- 
riously— closed  the  box — then  looked  at  me  again  with  \\i> 
watering  and  twinkling  more  suspiciously  than  before. 

"Yes,"  said  the  monk,  "  that's  an  ugly  sight  in  our  out-hou-e 
—a  very  ugly  sight,  certainly!'' 

I  never  had  more  difficulty  in  keeping  my  temper  in  my  lite 
than  at  that  moment.  I  succeeded,  however,  in  repi 

< -I  fnl  expression  on  the  subject  of  monks  in  general. 
which  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue,  and    made  another  attempt 

nquer  the  old  man's  exasperal i •  nunatel 

mychan  'icceeding  with  him.  1  v.  r  myself, 

and   1    had   a    box  full  of  excellent  English  snuff  in   my  jMJcket, 
which  I  now  produced  as  a  bribe.      It  was  my  last  resoii 

"  I  thought  \onr  box  seemed  empty  just  now/'  said  1:  "  will 
you  try  a  pinch  out  of  mine?" 

The  offer  was  accepted  with   an   almost   youthful    alacrn 

ire.     The  I'apuchin  took  the  largest   pinch    1  e\ 
between  any  man's  linger  and  thumb—  inhaled  it  slowly  wii 


110  THE    QUEEN    Of    HEARTS. 

spilling  a  single  grain— half  closed  his  eyes — and,  wagging  hie 
head  gently,  patted  me  paternally  on  the  back. 

"  Oh,  my  son,"  said  the  monk,  "what  delectable  snuff!  Oh, 
my  son  and  amiable  traveler,  give  the  spiritual  father  who  lovee 
you  yet  another  tiny,  tiny  pinch!" 

"Let  me  fill  your  box  for  you.  I  shall  have  plenty  left  for 
myself. 

The  battered  tin  snuff- box  was  given  to  me  before  I  had  done 
speaking;  the  paternal  hand  patted  my  back  more  approvingly 
than  ever;  the  feeble,  husky  voice  grew  glib  and  eloquent  in  my 
praise.  I  had  evidently  found  out  the  weak  side  of  the  old 
Capuchin,  and,  on  returning  him  his  box,  I  took  instant  advan- 
tage of  the  discovery. 

"  Excuse  my  troubling  you  on  the  subject  again,"  I  said,  "  but 
have  particular  reasons  for  wanting  to  hear  all  that  you  can  tell 
me  in  explanation  of  that  horrible  sight  in  the  out-house." 

"  Come  in,"  answered  the  monk. 

He  drew  me  inside  the  gate,  closed  it,  and  then  leading  the 
way  across  a  grass-grown  courtyard,  looking  out  on  a  weedy 
kitchen-garden,  showed  me  into  a  long  room  with  a  low  ceiling, 
a  dirty  dresser,  a  few  rudely-carved  stall  seats,  and  one  or  two 
grim,  mildewed  pictures  for  ornaments.  This  was  the  sacristy. 

"  There's  nobody  here,  and  it's  nice  and  cool,"  said  the  old 
Capuchin.  It  was  so  damp  that  I  actually  shivered.  "Would 
you  like  to  see  the  church  ?"  said  the  monk;  "  a  jewel  of  a  church, 
if  we  could  keep  it  in  repair;  but  we  can't.  Ah!  malediction 
and  misery,  we  are  too  poor  to  keep  our  church  in  repair!" 

Here  he  shook  his  head,  and  began  fumbling  with  a  large 
bunch  of  keys. 

"  Never  mind  the  church  now,"  said  I.  "  Can  you,  or  can  you 
not,  tell  me  what  I  want  to  know  ?" 

"Everything,  from  beginning  to  end — absolutely  everything. 
Why,  I  answered  the  gate-bell — I  always  answer  the  gate-bell 
here,"  said  the  Capuchin. 

"  What,  in  Heaven's  name,  has  the  gate-bell  to  do  with  the  un- 
buried  corpse  in  your  house?" 

"Listen,  son  of  mine,  and  you  shall  know.  Some  time  ago- 
some  months— ah!  me,  I'm  old;  I've  lost  my  memory;  I  don't 
know  how  many  months — ah!  miserable  me,  what  a  very  old, 
old  monk  I  am !"  Here  he  comforted  himself  with  another  pinch 
of  snuff. 

"  Never  mind  the  exact  time,"  said  I.  "I  don't  care  about 
that." 

"  Good,"  said  the  Capuchin.  "  Now  I  can  go  on.  Well,  let  us 
say  it  is  some  months  ago — we  in  this  convent  are  all  at  break- 
fast—wretched, wretched  breakfasts,  son  of  mine,  in  this  con- 
vent!— we  are  at  breakfast,  and  we  hear  bang  !  bang  !  twice  over. 
'  Guns,'  says  I.  '  What  are  'they  shooting  for  ?'  says  Brother 
Jeremy.  'Game,'  says  Brother  Vincent.  'Aha!  game,'  says 
Brother  Jeremy.  '  If  I  hear  more,  I  shall  send  out  and  discover 
what  it  means,'  says  the  father  superior.  We  hear  uo  more,  and 
we  go  on  with  our  wretched  breakfasts." 

"  Where  did  the  report  of  fire-arms  come  from?"  I  inquired. 


>F   ///•:.!  KTO  111 

"From  down  below — beyond  the  big  trees  at  tbo  bark  of  tho 
where   the:-  und— nice  ground,  if  it 

wasn't  for  the   pools  and    puddles.     But,  ah  I  misery,  how  damp 
we  are  in  these  parts!  how  very,  very  damp!" 

vVell.  what  happened  after  the  report  of  firearms?" 
•  Yi  MI  shall   hear.     We  are  still  at  breakfast,  all  silent — for 
what  have  we  to  talk  about  here?    What  have  we  but   our  de 
>ur  kitchen-garden,  and  our  wretched,  wretched  hits  of 
breakfasts  and  dinners  V     I  say  we  are  all  silent,  when  there 
-  suddenly  such  a  ring  at  the  bell  as  never  was  heard  before 
devil  of  a  ring — a  ring  that  caught  us  all  with  our  bits 
—  our  wretched,  wretched  bits! — in  our  mouths,  and  stopped  us 
before  we  could  swallow  them.     '  Go,  brother  of  mine/  says  the 
r  superior  to  me,  'go;  it  is  your  duty — go  to  the  gate.'     I 
am  brave— a  very  lion  of  a  Capuchin.     I  slip  out  on  tip-toe — I 
wait— I  listen — I  pull  back  our  little  shutter  in  the  gate — I  wait, 
I   listen  again — I  peep  through  the   hole — nothing,   absolutely 
nothing  that  I  can  see.     lam  brave— I  am  not  to  be  daunted. 
What  do  I  do  next?    I  open  the  gate.     Ah!  sacred  mother  of 
'•n.  what  do  I  behold  lying  all  along  our  threshold?   A  man 
— dead!— a  big  man;  bigger  than  you,  bigger  than  me,  bigger 
than  anybody  in  this  convent — buttoned  up  tight  in  a  fine  coat, 
with  black  eyes,  staring,  staring  up  at  the  sky,  and  blood  soak- 
'trough  and  through  the  front  of  his  shirt.     What  do  I  do? 
•am  once — I  scream  twice — and  run  back  to  the  father  su- 
perior!" 

All  the  particulars  of  the  fatal  duel  which  I  had  gleaned  from 

the  French  newspaper  in  Monkton's  room  at  Naples  recurred 

vividly  to  my  memory.     The  suspicion   that  I  had  felt  when  I 

d  into  the  out-house  became  a  certainty  as  I  listened  to  the 

old  monk's  last  words. 

**  So  far  I  understand,"  said  I.  "  The  corpse  I  have  just  seen 
in  the  out-house  is  the  corpse  of  the  man  whom  you  found 
dead  outside  your  gate.  Now  tell  me  why  you  have  not  given 

'emains  decent  burial.'' 

"Wait— wait — wait,"  answered  the  Capuchin.     "The  father 
superior  hears  me  scream,  and  comes  out:  we  all  run  together  to 
ate:   \ve  lift  up  the  big  man.  and  look  at  him  close.     1' 

this  (smacking  the  dresser  with  his  hand).  We  look 
again,  and  see  a  bit  of  paper  pinned  to  the  collar  of  his  coat. 
Aha!  son  of  mine,  you  start  at  that.  I  thought  I  should  mako 

tart  at  : 

I  had  started  indeed.     That  paper  was  doubtle  nen- 

tioned  in  the  second's  unfinished  narrative   as   having  1 
out  of  his  jiock-  t-hook.  and  •  I  with  t  how 

the  dead  man  had  lost  his   life.      If   proof  j  mt»M 

ientify  the  dead  b«.d\  .  !  such  proof  found. 

"  What  do  JOEL  think    \\as    uritten  on  the   bit 
tinned  the  ( 'apuchiu.      <%  We  read  and  shudder.     This  dead  man 
killed  in  a  duel    he,  the  desperate,  the  miserable, 

died  in  the  commission  of  mortal   sin;  and  the  men  who  saw  the 
killing  of  him  ask  us  Oipuchin-.  holy  men,  servant 
children  of  our  lord  the  pop.  him  bu 


112  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

Oh!  but  we  are  outraged  when  \vo  read  that;  we  groan,  we  wring 
our  hands,  we  turn  away,  we  tear  our  beards,  we — 

"  Wait  one  moment,"  said  I,  seeing  that  the  old  man  was 
heating  himself  with  his  narrative,  and  was  likely,  unless  I 
stopped  him,  to  talk  more  and  more  fluently  to  less  and  less  pur- 
pose—  "wait  a  moment.  Have  you  preserved  the  paper  that 
was  pinned  to  the  dead  man's  coat;  and  can  I  look  at  it  r* 

The  Capuchin  seemed  on  the  point  of  giving  me  an  answer, 
when  he  suddenly  checked  himself.  I  saw  his  eyes  wander 
away  from  my  face,  and  at  the  same  moment  heard  a  door 
softly  opened  and  closed  again  behind  me. 

Looking  round  immediately,  I  observed  another  monk  in  the 
sacristy— a  tall,  lean,  black-bearded  man,  in  whose  presence  my 
old  friend  with  the  snuff-box  suddenly  became  quite  decorous  and 
devotional  to  look  at.  I  suspected  I  was  in  the  presence  of  the 
father  superior,  and  I  found  that  I  was  right  the  moment  he  ad- 
dressed me. 

"  I  am  the  father  superior  of  this  convent,"  he  said,  in  quiet, 
clear  tones,  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  face  while  he  spoke, 
with  coldly  attentive  eyes.  "I  have  heard  the  latter  part  of 
your  conversation,  and  I  wish  to  know  why  you  are  so  particu- 
larly anxious  to  see  the  piece  of  paper  that  was  pinned  to  the 
dead  man's  coat  ?" 

The  coolness  with  which  he  avowed  that  he  had  been  listen- 
ing, and  the  quietly  imperative  manner  in  which  he  put  his  con- 
cluding question,  perplexed  and  startled  me.  I  hardly  knew 
first  what  tone  I  ought  to  take  in  answering  him.  He  observed 
my  hesitation,  and  attributing  it  to  the  wrong  cause,  signed  to 
the  old  Capuchin  to  retire.  Humbly  stroking  his  long  gray 
beard,  and  furtively  consoling  himself  with  a  private  pinch  of 
the  "  delectable  snuff,"  my  venerable  friend  shuffled  out  of  the 
room,  making  a  profound  obeisance  at  the  door  just  before  he 
disappeared. 

"  Now,"  said  the  father  superior,  as  coldly  as  ever,  "lam 
waiting,  sir,  for  your  reply." 

"  You  shall  have  it  in  the  fewest  possible  words,"  said  I,  an- 
swering him  in  his  own  tone.  "  I  find,  to  my  disgust  and  horror, 
that  there  is  an  unburied  corpse  in  an  out-house  attached  to 
your  convent.  1  believe  that  corpse  to  be  the  body  of  an  En- 
glish gentleman  of  rank  and  fortune,  who  was  killed  in  a  duel. 
I  have  come  into  this  neighborhood,  with  the  nephew  and  only 
relation  of  the  slain  man,  for  the  express  purpose  of  recovering 
his  remains;  and  I  wish  to  see  the  paper  found  on  the  body, 
because  I  believe  that  paper  will  identify  it  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  relative  to  whom  I  have  referred.  Do  you  find  my  reply 
sufficiently  straightforward  ?  And  do  you  mean  to  give  me  per- 
mission to  look  at  the  paper  ?" 

"  I  am  satisfied  with  your  reply,  and  see  no  reason  for  refusing 
you  a  sight  of  the  paper,"  said  the  father  superior.  "  but  I  have 
something  to  say  first.  In  speaking  of  the  impression  produced 
on  you  by  beholding  the  corpse,  you  used  the  words  *  disgust ' 
and  '  horror.'  This  license  of  expression  in  relation  to  what  you 
have  seen  in  the  precincts  of  a  convent  proves  to  me  that  you 


Til  V    n/-'    lirMlTS. 

are  out  of  the  pale  of  tlio  Holy  Catholic  Church.     You  harp  no 

right,  th-  Kpeot  any  explanation;  hut  I  will  <_• 

one,  nevertln  a  favor.     The  slain  man  died,  una 

in  the  commission  of  mortal  sin.     We  infer  so  much  from  the 

paper  which  we  found  on  his  body;  and  we  know  by  the 

of  our  own  eyes  and  ears,  that  he  was  killed  on  the  terri- 
lories  of  the  Church,  and  in  the  act  of  committing  direct  viola- 
tion of  th  nil  laws  against  the  crime  of  dueling,  the  strict 
enforcement  of  which  the  holy  father  himself  has  urged  on  tho 
faithful  throughout  his  dominions  by  letters  signed  with  his  own 
hand.  Inside  this  convent  the  ground  is  consecrated,  and  wo 
Catholics  are  not  accustomed  to  bury  the  outlaws  of  our  re- 
ligion,  the  enemies  of  our  holy  father,  and  the  violators  of  our 
most  sacred  laws  in  consecrated  ground.  Outside  this  convent 
we  have  no  rights  and  no  power;  and,  if  we  had  both,  we  should 
remember  that  we  are  monks,  not  grave-diggers,  and  that  the 
only  burial  with  which  ice  can  have  any  concern  is  burial  with 
rayers  of  the  Church.  That  is  all  the  explanation  I  think 
it  necessary  to  give.  Wait  for  me  here,  and  you  shall  see  the 
paper."  With  those  words  the  father  superior  left  the  room  as 
quietly  as  he  had  entered  it. 

I  had  hardly  time  to  think  over  this  bitter  and  ungracious  ex- 
planation, and  to  feel  a  little  piqued  by  the  language  and  man- 
ner of  the  person  who  had  given  it  to  me,  before  the  father  su- 
perior returned  with  the  paper  in  his  hand.  He  placed  it  before 
me  on  the  dresser,  and  I  read,  hurriedly  traced  in  pencil,  the 
following  lines: 

"  This  paper  is  attached  to  the  body  of  the  late  Mr.  Stephen 
Monkton,  an  Englishman  of  distinction.  He  has  been  shot  in  a 
duel,  conducted  with  perfect  gallantry  and  honor  on  both  e 
His  body  is  placed  at  the  door  of  this  convent,  to  receive  burial 
at  the  hands  of  its  inmates,  the  survivors  of  the  encounter  being 
obliged  to  separate  and  secure  their  safety  by  immediate  flight. 
I,  the  second  of  the  slain  man,  and  the  writer  of  this  explana- 
tion, certify,  on  my  word  of  honor  as  a  gentleman,  that  the  shot 
which  killed  my  principal  on  the  instant  was  fired  fairly,  in  the 
strictest  accordance  with  the  rules  laid  down  beforehand  for  the 
conduct  of  the  duel. 

"(Signed),  F." 

"F."  I  recognized  easily  enough  as  the  initial  letter  of  Mou- 
pieur  Foulon's  name,  the  second  of  Mr.  Moukton,  who  had  <lied 
of  consumpton  at  Paris. 

The    discovery  and    the  identification    were   now    comj 
Nothing   remained    but   to  break  the  news  to  Alfred,  and  t 

»n  to  remove  the  remains  in  the  out  -house.     I  hetran  al- 
most to  doubt    the  evidv'iice  of   my  own  senses,  when  1  n-t' 
thai  the  apparently  impracticable  ohjert  with  which  we  had  left 
Naples   was    already,    l»y   the    mere  t    chance,    virtually   accom 
plisl 

"The  evidence  of  the  paner   is  d<  i'l    I.  han«lii 

back.     "There  can  be  no  aonbl    that    the   remain-  in  tl 
house  are  the  remains  of  which  we  have  been  in  search.     > 


114  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

inquire  if  any  obstacles  will  be  thrown  in  our  way  should  the 
late  Mr.  Monkton's  nephew  wish  to  remove  his  uncle's  body  to 
the  family  burial-place  in  England  ?" 

"  "Where  is  this  nephew?"  asked  the  father  superior. 

"  He  is  now  aw  aiting  my  return  at  the  town  of  Fondi." 

"  Is  he  in  a  position  to  prove  his  relationship?" 

"  Certainly;  he  has  papers  with  him  which  will  place  it  beyond 
a  doubt." 

"  Let  him  satisfy  the  civil  authorities  of  his  claim,  and  he  need 
expect  no  obstacle  to  his  wishes  from  any  one  here." 

I  was  in  no  humor  for  talking  a  moment  longer  with  my  sour- 
tempered  companion  than  I  could  help.  The  day  was  wearing 
on  fast;  and,  whether  night  overtook  me  or  not,  I  was  resolved 
never  to  stop  on  my  return  till  I  got  back  to  Fondi.  Accordingly, 
after  telling  the  father  superior  that  he  might  expect  to  hear 
from  me  again  immediately,  I  made  my  bow,  and  hastened  out 
of  the  sacristy. 

At  the  convent-gate  stood  my  old  friend  with  the  tin  snuff-box, 
waiting  to  let  me  out. 

"  Bless  you,  my  son,"  said  the  venerable  recluse,  giving  me  a 
farewell  pat  on  the  shoulder;  "  come  back  soon  to  your  spiritual 
father  who  loves  you,  and  amiably  favor  him  with  another  tiny, 
tiny  pinch  of  the  delectable  snuff." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

I  RETURNED  at  the  top  of  my  speed  to  the  village  where  I  had 
left  the  mules,  had  the  animals  saddled  immediately,  and  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  back  to  Fondi  a  little  before  sunset. 

When  ascending  the  stairs  of  our  hotel,  I  suffered  under  the 
most  painful  uncertainty  as  to  how  I  should  best  communicate 
the  news  of  my  discovery  to  Alfred.  If  I  could  not  succeed  in 
preparing  him  properly  for  my  tidings,  the  results,  with  such  an 
organization  as  his,  might  be  fatal.  On  opening  the  door  of  his 
room,  I  felt  by  no  means  sure  of  myself;  and  when  I  confronted 
him,  his  manner  of  receiving  me  took  me  so  much  by  surprise 
that,  for  a  moment  or  two,  I  lost  my  self-possession  alto- 
gether. 

Every  trace  of  the  lethargy  in  which  he  was  "sunk  when  I 
had  last  seen  him  had  disappeared.  His  eyes  were  bright,  his 
cheeks  deeply  flushed.  As  I  entered,  he  started  up,  and  refused 
my  offered  hand. 

"You  have  not  treated  me  like  a  friend,"  he  said,  passionately; 
"  you  had  no  right  to  continue  the  search  unless  I  searched  with 
you — you  had  no  right  to  leave  me  here  alone.  I  was  wrong  to 
trust  you;  you  are  no  better  than  all  the  re^t  of  them." 

I  had  by  this  time  recovered  a  little  from  my  first  astonish- 
ment, and  was  able  to  reply  before  he  could  say  anything  more. 
It  was  quite  useless,  in  his  present  state,  to  reason  with  him  or 
to  defend  myself.  I  determined  to  risk  everything,  and  break 
my  news  to  him  at  once. 

"You  will  treat  me  more  justly,  Monkton,  when  you  know 
that  I  have  been  doing  you  good  service  during  my  absence,"  I 


V    OF  J  in 

"I  ly    mistaken,  the  object    for  which 

pies  may  he  ii.-aivr  attainment   bv  both  « 

The  flush   left   his  cheeks  almost   in  an     instant. 

mil  iii  my  face,  or  some  tone  in  my  voice,  of  which  1 
LOUS,  had  re\ealed  to  his  nervously-quickened  pei 

tion  more  tliai:  1  had  intended  that  he  should  know  at  fir-t.     His 
1   themselves    intently  on    mine;  lii.s  hand  i   my 

arm;  and  he  said  to  me  in  an  eager  whisper: 

-11  me  the  truth  at  once.     Have  you  found  him?" 

It  was  too  late  to  hesitate.     I  answered  in  the  affirmative. 
'.iiried  or  unlmnVd  ?" 

His  voi.  abruptly  as  he  put  the  question,  and  his  unoc- 

cupied hand  fastened  on  my  other  arm. 

"Unburied," 

I  had  hardly  uttered  the  word  before  the  blood  flew  back  into 
his  cheek-:  his  eyes  flashed  again  as  they  looked  into  mine. 
be  burst  into  a  fit  of  triumphant  laughter,  which  shocked  and 
startled  me  inexpressibly. 

•'  What  did  I  tell  you?    What  do  you  say  to  the  old  prophecy 
now  ?"  he  cried,  dropping  his  hold  on  my  arms,  and  pacing  hack- 
ward  and  forward  in  the  room.     "Own  you  were  wrong.     Own 
all  Naples  shall  own  it,  when  once'l  have  got  him  safe  in 
his  < -of I'm!'' 

His  laughter  grew  more  and  more  violent.  I  tried  to  quiet 
him  in  vain.  1  Us  servant  and  the  landlord  of  the  inn  entered 
the  room,  but  they  only  added  fuel  to  the  fire,  and  I  made  them 
;ain.  As  I  shut  the  door  on  them,  I  observed  lying  on 
ii  tahle  near  at  hand  the  packet  of  letters  from  Miss  Elmslie. 
which  my  unhappy  friend  preserved  with  such  care,  and  read 
and  re-read  with  such  unfailing  devotion.  Looking  toward  me 
just  when  I  passed  by  the  table,  the  letters  caught  his  eye.  The 
new  hope  for  the  future,  in  connection  with  the  writer  of  them, 
which  my  news  was  already  awakening  in  his  heart,  seemed  to 
ovi  rwhelm  him  in  an  instant  at  sight  of  the  treasured  memorials 
that  reminded  him  of  his  betrothed  wife.  His  laughter  ce: 
his  face  changed,  he  ran  to  the  table,  caught  the  letters  up  in 
Ids  hand,  looked  from  them  to  me  for  one  moment  with  an  al- 
tered expression  which  went  to  my  heart,  then  sank  down  on 
his  knees  at  the  tahle,  laid  his  lace  on  the  letters,  and  hurst  into 
tears.  I  let  the  new  emotion  have  its  way  uninterruptedly,  and 
quitted  the  room  without  saying  a  word.  When  I  returned 
a  lapse  of  some  little  time,  I  found  him  sitting  quietly  in  his 
chair,  reading  one  of  the  letters  from  the  packet  which  i. 
on  his  knee. 

His  look  was  kindness  itself;  his  gesture  almost    womanly  in 
its  gent  I-  me,  and  anxiously  held  out  his 

hand. 

He  was  quite  calm  enough  now  to  hear  in  detail  all  that  T  had 
to   tell    him.     1  sup)  nothing  hut   the  particulars   of  the 

in    which  I  had     found    the    corpse.      I  assumed    no  right 
of  direction  as  to  the  share  he  was  to  take  in  our  future  pro 
ings,  with  the  exception  of   insisting  beforehand  that  he  should 


116  THE    QUEEN    OP   HEARTS. 

leave  the  absolute  superintendence  of  the  removal  of  the  body 
to  me,  and  that  he  should  be  satisfied  with  a  sight  of  Monsieur 
Foulou's  paper,  after  receiving  my  assurance  that  the  remains 
placed  in  the  coffin  were  really  and  truly  the  remains  of  which 
we  had  been  in  search. 

"Your  nerves  are  not  so  strong  as  mine,"  I  said,  by  way  oi 
apology  for  my  apparent  dictation,  "  and  for  that  reason  I  must 
beg  leave  to  assume  the  leadership  in  all  that  we  have  now  tc 
do,  until  I  see  the  leaden  coffin  soldered  down  and  safe  in  youi 
possession.  After  that  I  shall  resign  all  my  functions  to  you. 

"I  want  words  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness,"  he  answered, 
*'  No  brother  could  have  borne  witli  me  more  affectionately,  01 
helped  me  more  patiently  than  you." 

He  stopped  and  grew  thoughtful,  then  occupied  himself  ir 
tying  up  slowly  and  carefully  the  packet  of  Miss  Elmslie's  let- 
ters, and  then  looked  suddenly  toward  the  vacant  wall  behind 
me  with  that  strange  expression  the  meaning  of  which  I  knew 
so  well.  Since  we  had  left  Naples  I  had  purposely  avoided  ex- 
citing him  by  talking  on  the  useless  and  shocking  subject  of  the 
apparition  by  which  he  believed  himself  to  be  perpetually  fol- 
lowed. Just  now,  however,  he  seemed  so  calm  and  collected— 
so  little  likely  to  be  violently  agitated  by  any  illusion  to  th< 
dangerous  topic,  that  1  ventured  to  speak  out  boldly. 

"Does  the  phantom  still  appear  to  you,"  I  asked,  "as  it  ap 
peared  at  Naples  ?" 
He  looked  at  me  and  smiled. 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  that  it  followed  me  everywhere?"  Hii 
eyes  wandered  back  again  to  the  vacant  space,  and  he  went  or 
speaking  in  that  direction  as  if  he  had  been  continuing  the  con 
versation  with  some  third  person  in  the  room.  "  We  shall  part,' 
he  said,  slowly  and  softly,  "  when  the  empty  place  is  filled  in  Win 
cot  vault.  Then  '  shall  stand  with  Ada  before  the  altar  in  th< 
Abbey  chapel,  and  when  my  eyes  meet  hers  they  will  see  th» 
tortured  face  no  more." 

Saying  this,  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand,  sighed,  and  begai 
repeating  softly  to  himself  the  lines  of  the  old  prophecy: 
"  When  in  Wincot  vault  a  place 

Waits  for  one  of  Monkton's  race — 

When  that  one  forlorn  shall  lie 

Graveless  under  open  sky, 

Beggared  of  six  feet  of  earth, 

Though  lord  of  acres  from  his  birth— 

That  shall  be  a  certain  sign 

Of  the  end  of  Monkton's  line. 

Dwindling  ever  faster,  faster, 

Dwindling  to  the  last-left  master; 

From  mortal  ken,  from  light  of  day, 

Monkton's  race  shall  pass  away." 

Fancying  that  he  pronounced  the  last  lines  a  little  incoherent 
ly,  I  tried  to  make  him  change  the  subject.  He  took  no  notic 
of  what  I  said,  and  went  on  talking  to  himself. 

"Monkton's  race  shall  pass  away,"  he  repeated,  "but  no 
with  me.  The  fatality  hangs  over  my  head  no  longer.  I  shaJ 
bury  the  unburied  dead;  I  shall  fill  the  vacant  place  in  Wince 


7V;  117 

nnlt:  nntl   then     (hen  the   new  life,  the  life  with    Ada!"     That 
ned  t<>  recall  him    to  himself.      He  drew   In  ling 

i  rd    him,  placed   the   packet  of  letters   in  it.    and    then 
lu-i-t    of  paper.       "I  am    going  to  WIT 

id,  turning  to  me,  "  and  tell  her  the  good  IWVB.     H«-r  I 
hen  she   knows    it,  will  he  even   ureiittT  than  mil 
Worn  out  by  the  events  of  the  day,  I   left   him  writing  and 

!ol>e<l.     I  was,  however,  either  too  anxious  or  too  tired  to 
Tn  this  waking  condition,  my  mind  naturally  occupied 

with  the  discovery  at  the  convent,  and  with  the  events  to 
.-Inch  that  discovery  would  in  all  probability  lead.  As  I  thought 
n  t  he  future,  a  depression  for  which  I  could  not  account  weighed 
n  my  spirits.  There  was  not  the  slightest  reason  for  the  vaguely 
melancholy  forebodings  that  oppressed  me.  The  remains,  to  the 
which  my  unhappy  friend  attached  so  much  impor- 

had   been  traced;  they  would  certainly  be  placed  at  his 

•il  in  a  few  days;  he  might  take  them  to  England  by  the 

Merchant  vessel  that  sailed  from  Naples;  and,  the  gratitiea.- 

r  his  strange  caprice  thus  accomplished,  there  was  at  least 
>n  to  hope  that  his  mind  might  recover  its  tone,  and 

lie  new  life  he  would  lead  at  Wincot  might  result  in  mak- 
ng  him  a  happy  man.  Such  considerations  as  these  w<  re,  in 

Delves,  certainly  not  calculated  to  exert  any  melancholy  in- 

e  over  me;  and  yet,  all  through  the  night,  the  same  incon- 
eivable,  unaccountable  depression  weighed  heavily  on  my  spirits 
-heavily  through  the  hours  of  darkness — heavily,  even  when  I 

d  out  to  breathe  the  first  freshness  of  the  early  morning  air. 
With  the  day  came  the  all-engrossing  business  of  opening  ne- 
otiations  with  the  authoriti' 

Only  those  who  have  had  to  deal  with   Italian  officials  can 
marine  how  our  patience  was  tried  by  every  one  with  whon 
ame  in  contact.     We  were  bandied  about  from  one  authority  to 

;her,  were  stared  at,  cross  questioned,  mystified — not  in  the 
east  because  the  case  presented  any  special  difficulties  or  intri- 

.  but  because  it  was  absolutely  necessary  that  every  civil 
lignitary  to  whom  we  applied  should  assert  his  own  importance 

•  ding  us  to  our  object  in  the  most  roundabout  manner  pos- 
i'ble.  After  our  first  day's  experience  of  official  life  in  Italy,  [ 

e  absurd  formalities,  which  we  had  no  choice  but   to  jx-r- 
orm,  to  lie  accomplished  by  Alfred  'done,  and  applied  myself  to 
he  really  serious  question  of  how  the  remains  in  the  convent 
•it-home  were  to  be  safely  removed. 
The   best  plan  that  suggested    itself    to  me   was  to  writ. 

I  iu  Kome,  where  I  knew  that  it  was  a   custom    to  embalm 
ihe  bodies  of  high  dignitaries  of  the  Church,  and  where,  1   con 
sequeutly  inferred,  such  chemical   assistance  as    \\.:  din 

Mir  emergency  might  be  obtained.      1  simply  Dialed  in  my  I. 

•  val  of  the  body  was  imperative.  th<  I  the 

I  ion  in  which  1  had  found  it :  and  <  t  hat  in. 

m  our  par!  --hould  be  spared  if  the  right   pers.  >n  «.r  i-  ..uM 

md  to  help  us.     li  liu.  more  difflcoltfes'interp 

•hemselves.     and     m  formalit  \>- 

.lirough,  but    m   the  end  pat;  and  m 


118  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

umphed,  and  two  men  came  expressly  from  Rome  to  undertake 
the  duties  we  required  of  them. 

It  is  unnecessary  that  I  should  shock  the  reader  by  entering 
into  any  detail  in  this  part  of  my  narrative.  When  I  have  said 
that  the  progress  of  decay  was  so  far  suspended  by  chemical 
means  as  to  allow  of  the  remains  being  placed  in  the  coffin,  and 
to  insure  their  being  transported  to  England  with  perfect  safety 
and  convenience,  I  have  said  enough.  After  ten  days  had  been 
wasted  in  useless  delays  and  difficulties,  I  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  the  convent  out -house  empty  at  last;  passed  through  a 
final  ceremony  of  snuff- taking,  or  rather,  of  snuff-giving,  with  the 
old  Capuchin,  and  ordered  the  traveling  carriages  to  be  ready  at 
the  inn  door.  Hardly  a  month  had  elapsed  since  our  departure 
ere  we  entered  Naples  successful  in  the  achievement  of  a  design 
which  had  been  ridiculed  as  wildly  impracticable  by  every  friend 
of  ours  who  had  heard  of  it. 

The  first  object  to  be  accomplished  on  our  return  was  to  obtain 
the  means  of  carrying  the  coffin  to  England — by  sea,  as  a  matter 
of  course.  All  inquiries  after  a  merchant  vessel  on  the  point  of 
sailing  for  any  British  port  led  to  the  most  unsatisfactory  results. 
There  was  only  one  way  of  insuring  the  immediate  transportation 
of  the  remains  to  England,  and  that  was  to  hire  a  vessel.  Impa-* 
tient  to  return,  and  resolved  not  to  lose  sight  of  the  coffin  till  he 
had  seen  it  placed  in  Wincot  vault,  Monkton  decided  imme- 
diately on  hiring  the  first  ship  that  could  be  obtained.  The 
vessel  in  port  which  we  were  informed  could  soonest  be  got 
ready  for  sea  was  a  Sicilian  brig,  and  this  vessel  my  friend  ac- 
cordingly engaged.  The  best  dockyard  artisans  that  could  be 
got  were  set  to  work,  and  the  smartest  captain  and  crew  to  be 
picked  up  on  an  emergency  in  Naples  were  chosen  to  navigate 
the  brig. 

Monkton,  after  again  expressing  in  the  warmest  terms  his 
gratitude  for  the  services  I  had  rendered  him,  disclaimed  any 
intention  of  asking  me  to  accompany  him  on  the  voyage  to 
England.  Greatly  to  his  surprise  and  delight,  however,  I  offered 
on  my  own  accord  to  take  passage  in  the  brig.  The  strange  co- 
incidences I  had  witnessed,  the  extraordinary  discovery  I  had 
hit  on  since  our  first  meeting  in  Naples,  had  made  his  one  great 
interest  in  life  my  one  great  interest  for  the  time  being  as  well. 
I  shared  none  of  his  delusions,  poor  fellow;  but  it  is  hardly  an 
exaggeration  to  say  that  my  eagerness  to  follow  our  remarkable 
adventure  to  its  end  was  as  great  as  his  anxiety  to  see  the  coffin 
laid  in  Wincot  vault.  Curiosity  influenced  me,  I  am  afraid,  al- 
most as  strongly  as  friendship,  when  I  offered  myself  as  the 
companion  of  his  voyage  home. 

We  set  sail  for  England  on  a  calm  and  lovely  afternoon. 

For  the  first  time  since  I  had  known  him,  Monkton  seemed  to 
be  in  high  spirits.  He  talked  and  jested  on  all  sorts  of  subjects, 
and  laughed  at  me  for  allowing  my  cheerfulness  to  he  affected 
by  the  dread  of  sea  sickness.  I  had  really  no  sm-li  IVar;  it  was 
my  excuse  to  my  friend  for  a  return  of  that  unaccountable 
depression  under  which  I  had  suffered  at  Fondi.  Everything 
was  in  our  favor;  everybody  on  board  the  brig  was  in  good 


77//<:    QUEEN    OF^  119 

The  captain   was  delighted   with  t'  1;  the  <•• 

Italians  and  Maltese,  were  in  high  glee  at  the  p 
short  voyage  on  high  wages  in  a  well  pro 
alone  felt    heavy   at  There   was    no  valid    reason  tl 

could  assign   to    myself  for  the   melancholy  that   o| 

I  struggled  against  it  in  vain. 

•on  our  lirst  night  at   sen.  I  made  a  discovery  which  was 
calculated  to  restore  my  spirits  to  their  usual  vmii- 
librium.     Monkton  was  in  the  cabin,  on  the  floor  of  which  had 
placed  the  packing-case  containing  the  coffin,  and  I  v\ 

The  wind  had  fallen  almost  to  a  calm,  and  I  was  la/ily 
watching  the  sails  of  the  brig  as  they  flapped  from  time  to  time 
against  the  masts,  when  the  captain  approached,  and,  drawing 
me  out  of  hearing  of  the  man  at  the  helm,  whispered  in  my 

"There's  something  wrong  among  the  men  forward.  Did 
you  observe  how  suddenly  they  all  became  silent  just  before  sun- 

I  had  observed  it,  and  told  him  so. 

"  There's  a  Maltese  boy  on  board,"  pursued  the  captain,  "who 
mart  enough  lad,  but  a  bad  one  to  deal  with.     1  have  found 
out  that  he  has  been  telling  the  men  there  is  a  dead  body  inside 
that  packing-case  of  your  friend's  in  the  cabin." 
My  heart  sank  as  he  spoke.     Knowing  the  superstitious  irra- 
iity  of   sailors — of  foreign  sailors  especially — I  had   taken 
to  spread  a  report  on  board  the  brig,  before  the  coffin  was 
shipped,    that   the   packing-case   contained   a  valuable    marble 
statute  which  Mr.  Monkton  prized  highly,  and  was  unwilling  to 
trust  out  of  his  own  sight.     How  could  this  Maltese  boy  have 
vered  that  the  pretended  statue  was  a  human  corpse/      \s 
I  pondered  over  the  question,  my  suspicions  fixed  themselves  on 
Monkton's  servant,  who  spoke  Italian  fluently,  and  whom   1 
knew  to  be  an  incorrigible  gossip.     Thf   man  denied  it  when    1 
charged  him  with  betraying  us,  but  I  have  never  believed  his 

ial  to  this  day. 

"The  little  imp  won't  say  wh%re  he  picked  up  this  notion  of 
his  about  the  dead  body,"  continued  the  captain.  "  It's  not  m\ 
place  to  pry  into  secrets;  but  I  advise  you  to  call  the  crew  aft. 
and  contradict  the  boy,  whether  he  speaks  the  truth  or  not.  The 

are  a  parcel  of  fools  who  believe  in  ghost*,  and  all  the 
of  it.     Some  of  them  say  they  never  would   have   signed  our 
articles  if  they  had  known  they  were  going  to  sail  with  a  dead 
man:  others  only  grumble;  but  I  am  afraid  wo  shall   h.; 
trouble  with  them  all,  in  ease  of  rough  weather,  unless  the 

ntradicted    by    you  or    the  other    gentleman.      The  men 
iat  if  either  you  or  your  friend   tell   them   on  your  \ 
of  honor   that   the    Maltese   is  a  liar,  they   will   hand   him  up 
e's-eiided  accordingly;  but  that  if  you  won't,  they  have 
up  their  minds  to  believe  t  he  lx>y." 

Here  the  captain  paused  and  awaited  my  answer.     I  could 
him  none.     1  felt  hopeless  under  our  u<  emerget 

lie  l>oy  punished  by  giving   my  word  of  hon 
i  falsehood  was  not  to  be  thought  of  even  for  a  moment. 


120  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

What  other  means  of  extrication  from  this  miserable  dilemms 
remained  ?  None  that  I  could  think  of.  I  thanked  the  captair 
for  his  attention  to  our  interests,  told  him  I  would  take  time  tc 
consider  what  course  I  should  pursue,  and  begged  that  he  woulc 
say  nothing  to  my  friend  about  the  discovery  he  had  made.  H< 
promised  to  be  silent  sulkily  enough,  and  walked  away  from  me 

We  had  expected  the  breeze  to  spring  up  with  the  morning 
but  no  breeze  came.  As  it  wore  on  toward  noon  the  atmosphere 
became  insufferably  sultry,  and  the  sea  looked  as  smooth  a« 
glass.  I  saw  the  captain's  eye  turn  often  and  anxiously  to  wind 
ward.  Far  away  in  that  direction,  and  alone  in  the  blue  heaven 
I  observed  a  little  black  cloud,  and  asked  if  it  would  bring  ui 
any  wind. 

"More  than  we  want,"  the  captain  replied,  shortly;  and  then 
to  my  astonishment,  ordered  the  crew  aloft  to  take  in  sail.  Th< 
execution  of  this  maneuver  showed  but  too  plainly  the  tempei 
of  the  men;  they  did  their  work  sulkily  and  slowly,  grumbling 
and  murmuring  among  themselves.  The  captain's  manner,  a) 
he  urged  them  on  with  oaths  and  threats,  convinced  me  we  wer< 
in  danger.  I  looked  again  to  windward.  The  one  little  clout 
had  enlarged  to  a  great  bank  of  murky  vapor,  and  the  sea  at  tin 
horizon  had  changed  in  color. 

"  The  squall  will  be  on  us  before  we  know  where  we  are,"  sai< 
the  captain.  "  Go  below;  you  will  be  only  in  the  way  here." 

I  descended  to  the  cabin,  and  prepared  Monkton  for  what  wai 
coining.  He  was  still  questioning  me  about  what  I  had  observec 
on  deck  when  the  storm  burst  on  us.  We  felt  the  little  brig 
strain  for  an  instant  as  if  she  would  part  in  two,  then  she  seeme< 
to  be  swinging  round  with  us,  then  to  be  quite  still  for  a  mo 
ment,  trembling  in  every  timber.  Last  came  a  shock  whic) 
hurled  us  from  our  seats,  a  deafening  crash,  and  a  flood  of  wate: 
pouring  into  the  cabin.  We  clambered,  half  drowned,  to  tin 
deck.  The  brig  had,  in  nautical  phrase,  "broached  to," and  sin 
now  lay  on  her  beam-ends. 

Before  I  could  make  out  anything  distinctly  in  the  horribli 
confusion  except  the  one  tremendous  certainty  that  we  wen 
entirely  at  the  mercy  of  the  sea,  I  heard  a  voice  from  the  fon 
part  of  the  ship  which  stilled  the  clamoring  and  shouting  of  th< 
rest  of  the  crew  in  an  instant.  The  words  were  in  Italian,  but 
understood  their *fatal  meaning  only  too  easily.  We  had  sprung 
a  leak,  and  the  sea  was  pouring  into  the  ship's  hold  like  the  raa 
of  a  mill-stream.  The  captain  did  not  lose  his  presence  of  mine 
in  this  fresh  emergency.  He  called  for  his  axe  to  cut  away  th< 
foremast,  and,  ordering  some  of  the  crew  to  help  him,  directec 
the  others  to  rig  out  the  pumps. 

T he  words  had  hardly  passed  his  lips  before  the  men  broki 
into  open  mutiny.  With  a  savage  look  at  me,  their  ringleade) 
declared  that  the  passengers  might  do  as  they  pleased,  but  tha 
he  and  his  messmates  were  determined  to  take  to  the  boat,  anc 
leave  the  accursed  ship,  and  the  dead  man  in  her,  to  go  to  tin 
bottom  together.  As  he  spoke  there  was  a  shout  among  th< 
sailors*  and  I  observed  some  of  them  pointing  derisively  behinc 
me..  Looking  round,  I  saw  Monkton,  who  had  hitherto  kep 


Till]  V    OF  121 

my  side,  unking  li;  l>ackto  the  cabin.     I  follov, 

him  directly,  hut  the  \\  I  confusion  on  deck,  and  the  im- 

sibility,  from   the  position  of  the  brig,  of  moving  the  feet 
without  the  slow  assistance  of  the  hands,  so  impeded  <>g- 

that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to  overtake  him.     When  I  had 
below  he  was  crouched  upon  the  coffin,  with  the  water  on 
the  cabin  floor  whirling  and  splashing  about  him  as  the  ship 
M-d  and  plun^'d.     I  saw  a  warning  brightness  in  his  eyes,  a 
warning  flush  on  his  cheek,  as  I  approached  and  said  to  him: 
"Then-  is  nothing  left  for  it,  Alfred,  but  to  bow  to  our  mis- 
me,  and  to  do  the  best  we  ran  to  save  our  lives." 

ive  yours,"  lie  cried,  waving  his  hand  to  me,  "  for  you  have 
a  future  before  you.  Mine  is  gone  when  this  coffin  goes  to  the 
bottom.  If  the  ship  sinks,  I  shall  know  that  the  fatality  is  ac- 
complished, and  shall  sink  with  her." 

I  saw  that  he  was  in  no  state  to  be  reasoned  with  or  persuaded, 
and  raised  myself  again  to  the  deck.  The  men  were  cutting 
away  all  obstacles  so  as  to  launch  the  long-boat,  placed  amid- 
ships over  the  depressed  bulwark  of  the  brig  as  she  lay  on  her 
Bide,  and  the  captain,  after  haying  made  a  last  vain  exertion  to 
restore  his  authority,  was  looking  on  at  them  in  silence.  The 
violence  of  the  squall  seemed  already  to  be  spending  itself,  and 
I  asked  whether  there  was  really  no  chance  for  us  if  we  remain- 
ed by  the  ship.  The  captain  answered  that  there  might  have 
been  the  best  chance  if  the  men  had  obeyed  his  orders,  but  that 
theie  was  none.  Knowing  that  I  could  place  no  depend- 
e  on  the  presence  of  mind  of  Monkton's  servant,  I  confided 
to  the  captain,  in  the  fewest  and  plainest  words,  the  condition 
of  my  unhappy  friend,  and  ask  if  I  might  depend  on  his  help. 
He  nodded  his  head,  and  we  descended  together  to  the  cabin. 
Even  at  this  day  it  costs  me  pain  to  write  of  the  terrible  neo< 
sijy  to  which  the  strength  and  obstinacy  of  Monkton's  delusion 
reduced  us  in  the  last  resort.  We  were  compelled  to  secure  his 
hands,  and  drag  him  by  main  force  to  therleck.  The  men  were 
on  the  point  of  launching  the  boat,  and  refused  at  first  to  receive 
us  into  it. 

"  You  cowards!"  cried  the  captain,   "  have  we  got  the  dead  / 
man  with  us  this  time  ?    Isn't  he  going  to  the  bdltom  along  with  / 
the  brig  ?    Who  are  you  afraid  of  when  we  get  into  the  boat ':" 
This  sort  of  appeal    produced  the  desired  effect:   the   men 

•une  ashamed  of  themselves,  and  retracted  their  refusal. 
Just  as  we  pushed  off  from  the  sinking  ship,  Alfred  made  an 
eil'ort  to  break  from  me,  but  I  held  him  firm,  and  he  never  repeat- 
ed the  attempt.    He  sat  by  me  with  drooping  head,  still  and  silent 
while  the   sailors  n>\ved   away    fiom   the   vessel;  still  and  silent 
when,  with  one  ac<  ord,  they  paused  at  a    little  distance  oil',  and 
we  all  waited  and  watched  to  see  the  brig  sink;  still   and  silei 
even    when    that    sinking    happened,    when    the   lal>oring   hull 
plunged    slowly    into    the    hollow    of   the    sea— hesitated,    as    it 
for  one  moment,  rose  a  little  again,  then  sank  to  rise  no 

Sank  with  her  dead  freight — sank,  and  snatched   forever  from 
our  power  the  corpse  which  we  had  di  !>ya  mi; 


122  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

cle — those  jealously-preserved  remains,  011  the  safe-keeping  of 
which  rested  so  strangely  the  hopes  and  the  love-destinies  of  two 
living  beings!  As  the  last  signs  of  the  ship  disappeared  in  the 
depths  of  the  waters,  I  felt  Monkton  trembling  all  over  as  he  sat 
close  at  my  side,  and  heard  him  repeating  to  himself,  sadly,  and 
many  times  over,  the  name  of  "Ada." 

I  tried  to  turn  his  thoughts  to  another  subject,  but  it  was  use- 
less. He  pointed  over  the  sea  to  where  the  brig  had  once  been, 
and  where  nothing  wns  left  to  look  at  but  the  rolling  waves. 

"  The  empty  place  will  now  remain  empty  forever  in  Wincot 
vault." 

As  he  said  those  words,  he  fixed  his  eyes  for  a  moment  sadly 
and  earnestly  on  my  face,  then  looked  away,  leaned  his  cheek 
on  his  hand,  and  spoke  no  more. 

We  were  sighted  long  before  nightfall  by  a  trading  vessel, 
were  taken  on  board,  and  landed  at  Cartagena  in  Spain.  Alfred 
never  held  up  his  head,  and  never  once  spoke  to  me  of  his  own 
accord  the  whole  time  we  were  at  sea  in  the  merchantman.  I 
observed,  however,  with  alarm,  that  he  talked  often  and  inco- 
herently to  himself — constantly  muttering  the  lines  of  the  old 
prophecy —constantly  referring  to  the  fatal  place  that  was  empty 
in  Wincot  vault — constantly  repeating  in  broken  accents,  which 
it  affected  me  inexpressibly  to  hear,  the  name  of  the  poor  girl 
who  was  awaiting  his  return  to  England.  Nor  were  these  the 
only  causes  for  the  apprehension  that  I  now  felt  on  his  account. 
Toward  the  end  of  our  voyage  he  began  to  suffer  from  alterna- 
tions of  fever-fits  and  sbivering-fits,  which  I  ignorantly  imag- 
ined to  be  attacks  of  ague.  I  was  soon  undeceived.  We  had 
hardly  been  a  day  on  shore  before  he  became  so  much  worse  that 
I  secured  the  best  medical  assistance  Cartagena  could  afford. 
For  a  day  or  two  the  doctors  differed,  as  usual,  about  the  nature 
of  his  complaint,  but  ere  long  alarming  symptoms  displayed 
themselves.  The  medical  men  declared  that  his  life  was  in 
danger,  and  told  me  that  his  disease  was  brain  fever. 

Shocked  and  grieved  as  I  was,  I  hardly  knew  how  to  act  at  first 
under  the  fresh  responsibility  now  laid  upon  me.  Ultimately  I 
decided  on  writing  to  the  old  priest  who  had  been  Alfred's  tutor, 
and  who,  as  I  knew,  still  resided  at  Wincot  Abbey.  1  told  this 
gentleman  all  that  had  happened,  begged  him  to  break  my  mel- 
ancholy news  as  gently  as  possible  to  Miss  Elmslie,  and  assured 
him  of  my  resolution  to  remain  with  Monkton  to  the  last. 

After  I  bad  dispatched  my  letter,  and  had  sent  to  Gibraltar  to 
secure  the  best  English  medical  advice  that  could  be  obtained,  I 
felt  that  I  had  done  my  best,  and  that  nothing  remained  but  to 
wait  and  hope. 

Many  a  sad  and  anxious  hour  did  I  pass  by  my  poor  friend's 
bedside.  Many  a  time  did  I  doubt  whether  1  had  done  right  in 
giving  any  encouragement  to  "his  delusion.  The  reasons  for 
doing  so  which  had  suggested  themselves  to  me  after  my  first 
interview  with  him  seemed,  however,  on  reflection,  to  bo  valid 
reasons  still.  The  only  way  of  hastening  his  return  to  England 
and  to  Miss  Klmslie,  who  was  pining  for  that  return,  was  the 
way  I  had  taken.  It  was  not  my  fault  that  a  disaster  which  no 


TE 


ill  lu's  projects  ;md  all 

Rut.  Ti<>\\-  tint  Hi"  c;damity  had  happen*  •<  1  and  was  irretriev.-il.le, 

!  of  his  physical  recovery,  was  his  moral  malady 

<  on  I  reflected  on  the  hereditary  taint  in  his  menta' 

11,  on  that  first  childish    fright   of  Stephen   Monkton    t 

i   he  had    never  recovered,  on   the  perilously-secluded  life 

be  had  led  at  the  Abbey,  and  on  his  firm  persuasion  of  the 

v  of  the  apparition  by  which  he  believed  himself  to  l>c 

y  followed,  I   confess   1   despaired  of  shaking  his  sup- 

faith  in  every  word  and   line  of  the  old  family  propl 
If  the  series  of  striking  coincidences  which  appeared  to  attest  its 
truth  had  made  a  strong  and  lasti?ig  impression  on  -nic  (and  this 

issiiredly  tin  bow  could  1  wonder  that  they  had  pro- 

I  the  effect  of  absolute  conviction  on  ///.s  mind,  constituted 
as  it  was?  If  I  argued  with  him,  and  he  answen  'me  liow  could 

•in?  If  he  sai<l,  ''The  prophecy  points  at  the  last  of  the 
family:  I  am  the  last  of  the  family.  The  prophecy  mentions  an 
empty  pla«-e  in  Wincot  vault:  there  is  such  an  .'inpty  plac  there 

•;  moment.  On  the  faith  of  the  prophecy  I  told  \ou  that 
Stephen  Monkton's  lx>dy  was  nuburied,  and  you  found  that  it 

unburied  "  —  if  he  said  this,  what  use  would  it  be  for  me  to 
reply,  "These  are  only  stran.uv  coincidences  after  all?" 
The  more  1  thought  of  the  task  that  lay  before  me.  if  In 

e<l,  the  more  I  felt  inclined  to  despond.     The  oftener  the 
English  physician  who  attended  on  him  said  to  me,  ''He  may 
r  of  the  fever,  but  he  has  a  fixed  idea,  which  n 

s  him  night  or  day,  which  has  unsettled  his  reason,  and 
which  will  end  in  killing  him.  unless  you  or  some  of  his  friends 
can  remove  it  "  —  the  oftener  I  heard  this,  the  more  acutely  1  felt 
my  own  powerlessness.  the  more  I  shrank  from  every  idea  that 

•onnected  with  the  hopeless  future. 
I  had  only  expected  to  receive  my  answer  from  Win  cot  in  the 

•  of  a  letter.  It  was  consequently  a  K''<'-'i<  surprise,  as  well 
as  a  great  relief,  to  be  informed  one  day  that  two  gentlemen 

d  to  speak  with  me.  and  to  find  that  of  these  two  gentle- 
Ben  the  tirst  was  the  old  priest,  and  the  second  a  male  relative 
of  Mrs.  El  nisi  ie. 

Just  before  their  arrival  the  fever-symptoms  had  disappeared, 
and  Alfred  had  been  pronounced  out  of  danger.  Both  the  priest 
and  his  companion  were  eager  to  know  when  the  sufferer  would 

rong  enough  to  travel.     They  had  come  to  Carta 

take  him  home  with  them,  and  felt   far  more  hopeful 

[  did  of  the  restorative  effects  of  his  native  air.  After  all 
•  ions  connected  with  the  first  important  point  of  tho 

journey  to  England  had  been  asked  and  answered,     f   • 
K>  make  some  inquiri  lli>s  Kimshv.    Efer  relative  informed 

njil'ering  lioth  in  bod\  and  in  mind 
on  Alfred's  account.     They   Ind    l»e«-n  obliged    \. 
>  the  dangerous  nature  of  his  illm 

r  from  accompanying  the  priest  and  her  relation  on  their 

•n  to  Spain. 

\vly  and  inn 


124  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

something  of  his  former  physical  strength,  but  no  alteration  ap- 
peared in  his  illness  as  it  affected  his  mind. 

From  the  very  first  day  of  his  advance  toward  recovery,  it  had 
been  discovered  that  the  brain  fever  had  exercised  the  strangest 
influence  over  his  faculties  of  memory.  All  recollection  of  recent 
events  was  gone  from  him.  Everything  connected  with  Naples, 
with  me,  with  his  journey  to  Italy,  had  dropped  in  some  mysteri- 
ous manner  entirely  out  of  his  remembrance.  So  completely  had 
all  late  circumstances  passed  from  his  memory  that,  though  he 
recognized  the  old  priest  and  his  own  servant  easily  on  the  first 
days  of  his  convalescence,  he  never  recognized  me,  but  regarded 
me  with  such  a  wistful,  doubting  expression,  that  I  felt  inex- 
pressibly pained  when  I  approached  his  bedside.  All  his  ques- 
tions were  about  Miss  Elmslie  and  Wincot  Abbey,  and  all  his 
talk  referred  to  the  period  when  his  father  was  yet  alive. 

The  doctors  augured  good  rather  than  ill  from  this  loss  of 
memory  of  recent  incidents,  saying  that  it  would  turn  out  to  be 
temporary,  and  that  it  answered  the  first  great  healing  purpose 
of  keeping  his  mind  at  ease.  I  tried  to  believe  them — tried  to 
feel  as  sanguine,  when  the  day  came  for  his  departure,  as  the 
old  friends  felt  who  were  taking  him  home.  But  the  effort  was 
too  much  for  me.  A  foreboding  that  I  should  never  see  him 
again  oppressed  my  heart,  and  the  tears  came  into  my  eyes  as  I 
saw  the  worn  figure  of  my  poor  friend  half  helped,  half  lifted 
into  the  traveling-  carriage  and  borne  away  gently  on  the  road 
toward  home. 

He  had  never  recognized  me,  and  the  doctors  had  begged  that 
I  would  give  him,  for  some  time  to  come,  as  few  opportunities 
as  possible  of  doing  so.  But  for  this  request  I  should  have  ac- 
companied him  to  England.  As  it  was,  nothing  better  remain- 
ed for  me  to  do  than  to  change  the  scene,  and  recruit  as  best  I 
could  my  energies  of  body  and  mind,  depressed  of  late  by  much 
watching  and  anxiety.  The  famous  cities  of  Spain  were  not  new  to 
me,  but  I  visited  them  again,  and  revived  old  impressions  of  Al- 
hambra  and  Madrid.  Once  or  twice  I  thought  of  making  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  East,  but  late  events  had  sobered  and  altered  me. 
That  yearning,  unsatisfied  feeling  which  we  call  "homesick- 
ness "  began  to  prey  upon  my  heart,  and  I  resolved  to  return  to 
England. 

I  went  back  by  way  of  Paris,  having  settled  with  the  priest 
that  he  should  write  to  me  at  my  banker's  there  as  soon  as  he 
could  after  Alfred  had  returned  to  Wincot.  If  I  had  gone  to 
the  East,  the  letter  would  have  been  forwarded  to  me.  I  wrote 
to  prevent  this;  and,  on  my  arrival  at  Paris,  stopped  at  the 
banker's  before  I  went  to  my  hotel. 

The  moment  the  letter  was  put  into  my  hands,  the  black  border 
on  the  envelope  told  me  the  worst.  He  was  dead. 

There  was  but  one  consolation — he  had  died  calmly,  almost 
happily  without  once  referring  to  those  fatal  chances  which  had 
MTOUght  the  fulfillment  of  thf  ancient  prophecy.  "  My  beloved 
pupil,"  the  old  priest  wrote,  "  seemed  to  rally  a  little  the  first 
few  days  after  his  return,  but  he  gained  no  real  strength,  and 
soon  suffered  a  slight  relapse  of  fever.  After  this  he  sank  .:• 


7V :  \      <>!<'     Ill 

ually  and  gently  day  by  day,  and  so  depart.  «1   from   us  on  the 

'I read  journey.     Miss  Elmslie(who  knows  that  I  am  writing 

TPS  me  to  express  her  deep  and  lasting  gratitude  for  all 

your  kindness  to  Alfred.     She  told  me -when  we  brought  him 

back  that  she  had  waited  for  him  as  his  promised  wife,  and  that 

would  nurse  him  n  \v  as  a  wifo  should;  and  she  never  left 
him.  Flis  face  was  turned  toward  her,  his  hand  was  clasped  in 

when  he  died.     It  will   console  you  to  know  that  he  i 
mentioned    events   at  Naples,  or  the  shipwreck  that   followed 
them,  from  the  day  of  his  return  to  the  day  of  his  death.'' 

Three  days  after  reading  the  letter  I  was  at  Wincot,  and  heard 
all  the  details  of  Alfred's  last  moments  from  :  he  priest.  I  felt  a 
shock  which  it  would  not  be  very  easy  for  me  to  analyze  or  ex- 
plain when  I  heard  that  he  had  been  buried,  at  his  own  desire, 
in  the  fatal  Abbey  vault. 
The  priest  took  me  down  to  see  the  place — a  grim.  cold,  sub- 

nean  building,  with  a  low  roof,  supported  on  heavy  Saxon 
arches.  N;  rrow  niches,  with  the  ends  only  of  coffins  visible 

MI  them,  ran  down  each  side  of  the  vault.  The  nails  and 
silver  ornaments  flashed  here  and  tbere  as  my  companion  moved 
past  them  with  a  lamp  in  his  hand.  At  the  lower  end  of  the 
he  stopped,  pointed  to  a  niche,  and  said,  "  He  lies  there, 
between  his  father  and  mother."  1  looked  a  little  further  on, 
and  saw  what  appeared  at  first  like  a  long  dark  tunnel.  '•  That 
is  only  an  empty  niche,"  said  the  priest,  following  me.  "If  the 
body  of  Mr.  Stephen  Monkton  had  been  brought  to  Wincot,  his 
coffin  would  have  been  placed  there." 

A  chill  came  over  me,  and  a  sense  of  dread  which  I  am 
ashamed  of  having  felt  now,  but  which  I  could  not  combat  then. 
The  blessed  light  of  day  was  pouring  down  gayly  at  the  other 
end  of  the  vault  through  the  open  door.  I  turned  my  back  on 
the  empty  niche,  and  hurried  into  the  sunlight  and  the  fresh  air. 
As  I  walked  across  the  grass  glade  leading  down  to  the  vault, 

rd  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress  behind  me,  and,  turning 
round,  saw  a  young  lady  advancing,  clad  in  deep  mourning. 
Her  sweet,  sad  face,  her  manner  as  she  held  out  her  hand,  told 
me  who  it  was  in  an  instant. 

'•  I  heard  that  you  were  here,"  she  said,  "  and  I  wished 

Her  voice  faltered  a  little.     My  heart  ached  as  I  saw  how  her  lip 

trembled,  but  before  I  could  say  anything  she  recover* 

and  went  on:  "I  wished   to  take  your  hand,  and  thank  you  for 

orotherly  kindness  to  Alfred;  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  that 
lam  sure  in  all  you  did  you  acted   tenderly  and  consider 
for  the  best.     Perhaps  you  may  he  soon  ••  way  f nun  home 

.  and  we  may  not  meet    any   more.     I  shall 

t  that  you  were  kind  to  him  when  he  wanted  a  friend,  ami 

v«ii  have  thegn  aim  of  any  one  on  earth  to  be  grate- 

fully remembered  in  my  thoughts  as  long  as  I   i 

The  inexpressible  tender  ness  of  her  voice,  trembling  a  little  all 
the  while  she  spoke,  the  pale  beaut  \  of  her  face,  th<  -  can- 

dor in  her  sad,  quiet  eyes,  so  affected  me  that  I  could  not  trust 

if  to  answer  her  at  first  except  by  gesture.     Before  I  i 


;.33  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

pred  my  voice  she  had  given  me  her  hand  once  more  and  left 

me. 

"  I  never  saw  her  again.  The  chances  and  changes  of  life 
kept  us  apart.  When  I  last  heard  of  her,  years  and  years  ago, 
she  was  faithful  to  the  memory  of  the  dead,  and  was  Ada  Elms- 
lie  still  for  Alfred  Monkton's  sake. 


THE  FIFTH  DAY. 

STILL  cloudy,  but  no  rain  to  keep  our  young  lady  in-doors. 
The  paper,  as  usual,  without  interest  to  me. 

To-day  Owen  actually  vanquished  his  difficulties  and  finished 
his  story.  I  numbered  it  Eight,  and  threw  the  corresponding 
number  (as  I  had  done  the  day  before  in  Morgan's  case)  into  the 
china  bowl. 

Although  I  could  discover  no  direct  evidence  against  her,  I 
strongly  suspected  the  Queen  of  Hearts  of  tampering  with  the 
lots  on  the  fifth  evening,  to  irritate  Morgan  by  making  it  his 
turn  to  read  again,  after  the  shortest  possible  interval  of  repose. 
However  that  might  be,  the  number  drawn  was  certainly  Seven, 
and  the  story  to  be  read  was  consequently  the  story  which  my 
brother  had  finished  only  two  days  before. 

If  I  had  not  known  that  it  was  part  of  Morgan's  character  always 
to  c'o  exactly  the  reverse  of  what  might  be  expected  from  him, 
I  should  have  been  surprised  at  the  extraordinary  docility  he 
exhibited  the  moment  his  manuscript  was  placed  in  his  hands. 

"  My  turn  again  ?v  he  said.  "How  very  satisfactory!  I  was 
anxious  to  escape  from  this  absurd  position  of  mine  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  here  is  the  opportunity  most  considerately  put  into 
my  hands.  Look  out,  all  of  you!  I  won't  waste  another  mo- 
ment. I  mean  to  begin  instantly. " 

"Do  tell  me,"  interposed  Jessie,  mischievously,  "shall  I  be 
verv  much  interested  to-night?" 

""Not  you!"  retorted  Morgan.  ;<  You  will  be  very  much  fright- 
ened instead.  Your  hair  is  uncommonly  smooth  at  the  present 
moment,  but  it  will  be  all  standing  on  end  before  I've  done. 
Don't  blame  me,  miss,  if  you  are  an  object  when  you  go  to  bed 
to-night!" 

With  this  curious  introductory  speech  he  began  to  read.  I 
was  obliged  to  interrupt  him  to  say  the  few  words  of  explana- 
tion which  the  story  needed. 

"Before  my  brother  begins,"  I  said,  "it  may  be  as  well  to 
mention  that  he  is  himself  the  doctor  who  is  supposed  to  relate 
this  narrative.  The  events  happened  at  a  time  of  his  life  when 
he  had  left  London,  and  had  established  himself  in  medical  prac- 
tice in  one  of  our  large  northern  towns." 

With  that  brief  explanation,  I  apologized  for  interrupting  the 
reader,  and  Morgan  began  once  more. 


TI/K    QUEEN    ')/•'    11  KM 


BROTHER  MORGAN'S  STORY  OF  mi:  hi  AD  HAND. 


"Win-:\  this  present  ninetieth  century  was  younger  by  a  good 
mar)'  than  it  is  now,  a  certain  friend  of  mine,  named 

Arthur  Holliday.  happened  to  arrive  in  the  town  of  Done 
exactly  in  the  middle  of  the  race  week,  or,  in  other  words,  in 
tin-  middle  of  the  month  of  September. 

He  was  one  of  those  reckless,  rattle-pated,  open-hearted, 
and  open-mouthed  young  gentlemen  who  possess  the  gift  of 
familiarity  in  its  highest  perfection,  and  who  scrambled  care- 
along  the  journey  of  life,  making  friends,  as  the  phrn 
wherever  they  go.  H  is  fat  her  \vas  a  rich  manufacturer,  and  had 
bought  landecl  property  enough  in  one  of  the  midland  counties  to 
make  all  the  born  squires  in  his  neighborhood  thoroughly  envious 
of  him.  Arthur  was  his  only  son,  possessor  in  prospect  of  the 
great  estate  and  the  great  business  after  his  father's  death;  well 
supplied  with  money,  and  not  too  rigidly  looked  after  during 
his  father's  lifetime.  Report,  or  scandal,  whichever  you  pi 
said  tlmt  the  old  gentleman  had  been  rather  wild  in  his  youthful 
.  and  that,  unlike  most  parents,  he  was  not  disposed  to  be 
violently  indignant  when  he  found  that  his  son  took  after  him. 
This  may  be  true  or  not.  I  myself  only  knew  the  elder  Mr. 
Holliday  when  he  was  getting  on  in  years,  and  then  he  was  as 
quiet  and  as  respectable  a  gentleman  as  ever  I  met  with. 

Well,  one  September,  as  I  told  you,  young  Arthur  comes  to 
Doncaster,  having  decided  all  of  a  sudden,  in  his  hare-brained 
way,  that  he  would  go  to  the  races.  He  did  not  reach  the  town 
till  toward  the  close  of  evening,  and  he  went  at  once  to  see 
about  his  dinner  and  bed  at  the  principal  hotel.  Dinner  they 
ready  enough  to  give  him,  but  as  for  a  bed,  they  laughed 
when  he  mentioned  it.  In  the  race-week  at  Doncaster  it  is  no 
uncommon  thing  for  visitors  who  have  not  bespoken  apartments 
to  pass  the  night  in  their  carriages  at  the  inn  doors.  As  for  the 
si.rt  <>f  stra Mirer-.  I  myself  have  often  seen  them,  at  that 
full  time,  sleeping  out  on  the  door-steps  for  want  of  a  covered 
place  to  creep  under.  Rich  as  he  was,  Arthur's  chance  of  get- 
ting a  night's  lodging  (seeing  that  he  had  not  written  beforehand 
to  secure  one)  was  more  than  doubtful.  He  tried  the  second 
hotel,  and  the  third  hotel,  and  two  of  the  inferior  inns  after 
that,  and  was  met  everywhere  with  the  same  form  of  an- 

•nmodation  for  the  night  of  any  sort  was  left.  All  the 
bright  golden  sovereigns  in  his  pocket  would  not  buy  him  a  bed 
at  1>  r  in  the  race-week. 

To  a  young  fellow  of  Arthur's  temperament,  the  novelty  of 
being  turned  away  into  the  street  like  a  penniless  vagabond,  at 
every  house  where  he  asked  for  a  lodging,  presented  itself  in  the 
lightof  a  new  and  highly-amusing  j  .  xperieuce.  He  went 

on  with  his  carpet-bag  in  his  hand,  applying  for  a  bed  at  every 
place  of  en tortainment  for  travelers  that  lie  could  find  in  Don- 
caster,  until  he  wandered  into  the  outskirts  of  the  town. 

By  this  time  the  last  glimmer  of  twilight  had  faded  out,  the 


138  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

moon  was  rising  dimly  in  a  mist,  the  wind  was  getting  cold,  the 
clouds  were  gathering  heavily,  and  there  was  every  prosp<  <  t 
that  it  was  soon  going  to  rain! 

The  look  of  the  night  had  rather  a  lowering  effect  on  young 
Holliday's  good  spirits.  He  began  to  contemplate  the  houseless 
situation  in  which  he  was  placed  from  the  serious  rather  than 
the  humorous  point  of  view,  and  he  looked  about  him  for  an- 
other public  house  to  inquire  at  with  something  very  like  down- 
right anxiety  in  his  mind  on  the  subject  of  a  lodging  for  the 
night. 

The  suburban  part  of  the  town  toward  which  he  had  now 
strayed  was  hardly  lighted  at  all,  and  he  could  see  nothing  of 
the  houses  as  he  passed  them,  except  that  they  got  progressively 
smaller  and  dirtier  the  further  he  went.  Down  the  winding 
road  before  him  shone  the  dull  glance  of  an  oil  lamp,  the  one 
faint  lonely  light  that  struggled  ineffectually  with  the  foggy 
darkness  all  round  him.  He  resolved  to  go  on  as  far  as  this  lamp 
and  then,  if  it  showed  him  nothing  in  the  shape  of  an  inn,  tore- 
turn  to  the  central  part  of  the  town,  and  to  try  if  he  could  not 
at  least  secure  a  chair  to  sit  down  on  through  the  night  at  one  of 
the  principal  hotels. 

As  he  got  near  the  lamp  he  heard  voices,  and,  walking  close 
under  it,  found  that  it  lighted  the  entrance  to  a  narrow  court, 
on  the  wall  of  which  was  painted  a  long  hand  in  faded  flesh- 
color,  pointing  with  a  lean  fore-finger  to  thio  inscription: 

"  THE  TWO  ROBINS." 

Arthur  turned  into  the  court  without  hesitation  to  see  what 
the  Two  Eobins  could  do  for  him.  Four  or  five  men  were 
standing  together  round  the  door  of  the  house,  which  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  court,  facing  the  entrance  from  the  street.  The 
men  were  all  listening  to  one  other  man  better  dressed  than  the 
rest,  who  was  telling  his  audience  something  in  a  low  voice,  in 
which  they  were  apparently  very  much  interested. 

On  entering  the  passage  Arthur  was  passed  by  a  stranger 
with  a  knapsack  in  his  hand,  wTho  was  evidently  leaving  the 
house. 

"No,"  said  the  traveler  with  the  knapsack,  turning  round 
and  addressing  himself  cheerfully  to  a  fat,  sly-looking,  bald- 
headed  man,  with  a  dirty  white  apron  on,  who  had  followed 
him  down  the  passage,  "  no,  Mr.  Landlord,  I  am  not  easily  scared 
by  trifles;  but  I  don't  mind  confessing  that  I  can't  quite  stand 
that:9 

It  occurred  to  young  Holliday,  the  moment  he  heard  these 
words,  that  the  stranger  had  been  asked  an  exorbitant  price  for 
a  bed  at  the  Two  Robins,  and  that  he  was  unable  or  unwilling 
to  pay  it.  The  moment  his  back  was  turned,  Arthur,  comfort- 
ably conscious  of  his  own  well-filled  pockets,  addressed  himself 
in  a  great  hurry,  for  fear  any  other  benighted  traveler  should 
slip  in  and  forestall  him,  to  the  sly- looking  landlord  with  the 
dirty  apron  and  the  bald  head. 

"If   you  have  got   a  bed  to   let,"  he   said,   "and  if  that 


Tli  V     OF    lit 

\vlio  lias  just  K""<'  ""<   won't  pay  your  price  for  it. 


•  II." 

The  sly  landlord  looked  hard  a!  Arthur. 

••  \\'iil  3  "   h<-  asked,  in  a  meditative,  doubtful  \\ 

"K  -ur    price,"    said    young     lloiliday,    thinking    the 

landlord's  hesitation  sprang  from  some  boorish  distrust  of  him. 
"Name   your  price,  and    I'll   give   you  the  money  at  one- 
you  like." 

"  Are  you  game  for  five  shillings  ?"  inquired  the  landlord,  rub- 
bing his  stubby  double  chin,  and  looking  up  thoughtfully  at  the 
ceiling  above  him. 

Arthur  nearly  laughed  in  the  man's  face:  but,  thinking  it  pru- 
dent to  control  himself,  offered  the  five  shillings  as  seriously  as 
he  could.  The  sly  landlord  held  out  his  hand,  then  suddenly 
drew  it  back  again. 

"  You're  acting  all  fair  and  overboard  by  me,"  he  said,  "  and, 
before  I  take  your  money,  PJ1  do  the  same  by  you.     Look  here; 
it  stands  in.    Do  you  see  what  I  mean,  young  gentleman  ?" 
tins  is  how  it  stands.    You  can  have  a  bed  all  to  yourself  for  five 
shillings,  but  you  can't  have  more  than  half  share  of  the  room, 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  returned  Arthur,  a  little  irritably.  "  You 
mean  that  it  is  a  double-bedded  room,  and  that  one  of  the  beds 
is  occupied  ?''  * 

The  landlord  nodded  his  head  and  rubbed  his  double  chin 
harder  than  ever.  Arthur  hesitated,  and  mechanically  moved  a 
step  or  two  toward  the  door.  The  idea  of  sleeping  in  the  same 
room  with  a  total  stranger  did  not  present  an  attractive  prospect 
to  him.  He  felt  more  than  half  inclined  to  drop  his  five  shillings 
into  his  pocket,  and  to  go  out  into  the  street  once  more. 

"  Is  it  yes  or  nor"  asked  the  landlord.  "  Settle  it  as  quick  as 
you  can,  because  there's  lots  of  people  wanting  a  bed  at  Don- 
caster  to-night  besides  you." 

Arthur  looked  toward  the  court,  and  heard  rain  falling  heavily 
in  the  street  outside.  He  thought  he  would  ask  a  question  or 
two  before  he  rashly  decided  on  leaving  the  shelter  of  the  Two 
Robins. 

"  What  sort  of  man  is  it  who  has  got  the  othei  bed?"  he  in- 
quired. "  Is  he  a  gentleman?  I  mean  is  heaquiet,  well-behaved 
person  V 

"  The  quietest  man  I  ever  came  across,"  said  the  landlord,  rub- 
bing his  fat  hands  stealthily  one  over  the  other.  "  As  sober  as  a 
judge,  and  as  regular  as  clockwork  in  his  habits.  It  h 
struck  nine  not  ten  minutes  ago,  and  he's  in  his  bed  already.  I 
don't  know  whether  that  comes  up  to  vour  notion  of  a  quiet 
man:  it  goes  a  long  way  ahead  of  mine,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  Is  he  asleep,  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Arthur. 

*'  I  know  he's  asleep,"  returned  the  landlord:  "ami,  what's 
more,  he's  gone  oil"  so  fast  that  I'll  warrant  you  don't  wake  him. 
This  way,  sir,"  said  the  landlord,  speak:  young  Holliday's 

shoulder,  as  if  he  was  addressing  some  new  guest  who  \v;i 
preaching  the  house. 

"  Here  you  are,''  said  Arthur,  determined  to  he  beforehand 
with  the  stranger,  whoever  he  might  be.  "I'll  take  the  bed.** 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

And  lie  handed  the  five  shillings  to  the  landlord,  who  nodded, 
dropped  the  money  carelessly  into  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and 
lighted  a  candle. 

''  Come  up  and  see  the  room,"  said  the  host  of  the  Two  Robins, 
leading  the  way  to  the  staircase  quite  briskly,  considering  how 
fat  he  was. 

They  mounted  to  the  second  floor  of  the  house.  The  landlord 
half  opened  a  door  fronting  the  landing,  then  stopped,  and 
turned  round  to  Arthur. 

"  It's  a  fair  bargain,  mind,  on  my  side  as  well  as  on  yours,"  he 
said.  "  You  give  me  five  shillings,  and  I  give  you  in  return  a 
clean,  comfortable  bed;  and  I  warrant,  beforehand,  that  you 
won't  be  interfered  with  or  annoyed  in  any  way,  by  the  man 
who  sleeps  in  the  same  room  with  you."  Saying  these  words, 
he  looked  hard,  for  a  moment,  in  young  Holliday's  face,  and 
then  led  the  way  into  the  room. 

It  was  larger  and  cleaner  than  Arthur  had  expected  it  would 
be.  The  two  beds  stood  parallel  with  each  other,  a  space  of 
about  six  feet  intervening  between  them.  They  were  both  of 
the  same  medium  size,  and  both  had  the  same  plain  white  cur- 
tains, made  to  draw,  if  necessary,  all  round  them. 

The  occupied  bed  was  the  one  nearest  the  window.  The  cur- 
tains were  all  drawn  round  it,  except  the  half  curtain  at  the  bot- 
tom, on  either  side  of  the  bed  furthest  from  the  window.  Arthur 
saw  the  feet  of  the  sleeping  man  raising  the  scanty  clothes  into 
a  sharp  little  eminence,  as  if  he  was  lying  flat  on  his  back.  He 
took  the  candle,  and  advanced  softly  to  draw  the  curtain — 
stopped  half  way,  and  listened  for  a  moment — then  turned  to  the 
landlord. 

"  He  is  a  very  quiet  sleeper,"  said  Arthur. 

"Yes,"  said  the  landlord,  "very  quiet." 

Young  Holliday  advanced  with  the  candle,  and  looked  at  the 
man  cautiously. 

"  How  pale  he  is,"  said  Arthur. 

"  Yes,"  returned  the  landlord,  "  pale  enough,  isn't  he?" 

Arthur  looked  closer  at  the  man.  The  bedclothes  were  drawn 
up  to  his  chin,  and  they  lay  perfectly  still  over  the  region  of  his 
chest.  Surprised  and  vaguely  startled  as  he  noticed  this,  Arthur 
stooped  down  closer  over  the  stranger,  looked  at  his  ashy,  parted 
lips,  listened  breathlessly  for  an  instant,  looked  again  at  the 
strangely  still  face,  and  the  motionless  lips  and  chest,  and  turned 
round  suddenly  on  the  landlord  with  his  own  cheeks  as  pale  for 
the  moment  as  the  hollow  cheeks  of  the  man  on  the  bed. 

"  Come  here,"  he  whispered,  under  his  breath.  "Come  here, 
for  God's  sake!  The  man's  not  asleep — he  is  dead." 

"  You  have  found  out  sooner  than  I  thought  you  would,*'  said 
the  landlord,  composedly.  "  Yes,  he's  dead,  sure  enough.  He 
died  at  five  o'clock  to-day." 

"  How  did  he  die?  Who  is  he?"  asked  Arthur,  staggered  for 
the  moment  by  the  audacious  coolness  of  the  answer. 

"As  to  who  is  he,"  rejoined  the  landlord,  "  I  know  no  more 
about  him  than  you  do.  There  are  his  books,  and  letters,  and 
things  all  sealed  up  in  that  brown  paper  parcel  for  the  coroner's 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS.  131 

inquest  to  open  to-morrow  or  next  day.     He's  been  here  a  week, 

paving  Mis  way   fairly  enough,  and  stopping  in-dpors,  for  the 

ii'  h<-  was  ailing.     My  girl  brought  him  up  his  tea 

at  five  to- (lay,  and  as  he  was  pouring  it  out,  he  fell  down  in  a 

faint,  or  a   lit,  or  a  compound  of  both,  for  anything  I  know. 

We  couldn't  bring  him  to,  and  I  said  he  was  dead.     And  the 

uldn't  bring  him  to,  and  the  doctor  said  he  was  dead. 

And  then-  lie  is.     And  the  coroner's  inquest's  coming  as  soon  as 

i.     And  that's  as  much  as  J  know  about  it." 

Arthur  held  the  candle  close  to  the  man's  lips.     The  flame" 
still   buuiecl  straight  up  as  steadily  as  ever.     There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  silence,   and   the  rain    pattered  drearily  through    it 
against  the  panes  of  the  window. 

"If  you  haven't  got  nothing  more  to  say  to  me,"  continued 
the  landlord,  "  I  suppose  I  may  go.  You  don't  expect  your  five 
shillings  bark,  do  you?  There's  the  bed  I  promised  you,  clean 
and  comfortable.  There's  the  man  I  warranted  not  to  disturb 
you,  quiet  in  this  world  forever.  If  you're  frightened  to  stop 
alone  witli  him,  that's  not  my  lookout.  I've  kept  my  part  of 
the  bargain,  and  ]  mean  to  keep  the  money.  I'm  not  Yorkshire 
myself,  young  gentleman,  but  I've  lived  long  enough  in  these 
parts  to  have  my  wits  sharpened,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you 
found  out  the  way  to  brighten  up  yours  next  time  you  come 
among  us." 

With  these  words  the  landlord  turned  toward  the  door,  and 
laughed  to  himself  softly,  in  high  satisfaction  at  his  own  sharp- 
ness. 

Startled  and  shocked  as  he  was,  Arthur  had  by  this  time  suf- 
ficiently recovered  himself  to  feel  indignant  at  the  trick  that 
had  been  played  on  him,  and  at  the  insolent  manner  in  which 
the  landlord  exulted  in  it. 

"  Don't  laugh,"  he  said,  sharply,  "  till  you  are  quite  sure  you 
have  got  the  laugh  againet  me.  You  sha'n't  have  the  five  shil- 
lings for  nothing,  my  man.  I'll  keep  the  bed." 

"Will  you?"  said  the  landlord.  "Then  I  wish  you  a  good 
night's  rest."  With  that  brief  farewell  he  went  out  and  shut  the 
door  after  him. 

A  good  night's  rest!    The  words  had  hardly  been  spoken,  the 

door  hud  hardly  been  closed,  before  Arthur  half  repented  the 

hasty  words  that  had  just  escaped  him.     Though  not  naturally 

-ensitn  e,  and  not  wanting  in  courage  of  the  moral  as  well 

as  the  physical  ,ort,  the  presence  of  the  dead  man  had  an  instan- 
taneously chilling  effect  on  his  mind    when    he  found  hii 
alone  in  the  room— alone,  and  bound   by   his  own  r 
stay  there  till  the   next    morning.     An  "older  man  would   have 
thought  nothing  of  those  words,  and  would  ha\  without 

reference  to  them,  as  his  calmer  sense  sug;.  But  Arthur 

was  too  \oung  to  treat    the  ridicule    even  of  his  inferiors   with 
oung  not  to  fear  the  momentary  humiliation  of 
falsifying  his  own  foolish  boast    more   than  he  feared  the  trial 
of  watching  out  the  long  night  in  the  sauie  chamber  with  the 

v*          ^-* 

dead. 


132  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

"  It  is  but  a  few  hours,"  he  thought  to  himself,  and  I  can  get 
away  the  first  thing  in  the  morning." 

He  was  looking  toward  the  occupied  bed  as  that  idea  passed 
through  hi%  mind,  and  the  sharp  angular  eminence  made  in  the 
clothes  by  the  dead  man's  upturned  feet  again  caught  his  eye. 
He  advanced  and  drew  the  curtains,  purposely  abstaining  as  he 
did  so,  from  looking  at  the  face  of  the  corpse  lest  he  might  un- 
nerve himself  at  the  outset  by  fastening  some  ghastly  impression 
of  it  on  his  mind.  He  drew  the  curtain  very  gently,  and  sighed 
involuntarily  as  he  closed  it. 

"  Poor  fellow,"  he  said,  almost  as  sadly  as  if  he  had  known 
the  man.  "  Ah!  poor  fellow!" 

He  went  next  to  the  window.  The  night  was  black,  and  he 
could  see  nothing  from  it.  The  rain  still  pattered  heavily 
against  the  glass.  He  inferred,  from  hearing  it,  that  the  win- 
dow was  at  the  back  of  the  house,  remembering  that  the  front 
was  sheltered  from  the  weather  by  the  court  and  the  buildings 
over  it. 

While  he  was  still  standing  at  the  window — for  even  the 
dreary  rain  was  a  relief,  because  of  the  sound  it  made;  a  relief, 
also,  because  it  moved,  and  had  some  faint  suggestion,  in  con- 
sequence, of  life  and  companionship  in  it — while  he  was  stand- 
ing at  the  window,  and  looking  vacantly  into  the  black  dark- 
ness outside,  he  heard  a  distant  church  clock  strike  ten.  Only 
ten!  How  was  he  to  pass  the  time  till  the  house  was  at'tir  the 
next  morning? 

Under  any  other  circumstances  he  would  have  gone  down  to 
the  public-house  parlor,  would  have  called  for  his  grog,  and 
would  have  laughed  and  talked  with  the  company  assembled  as 
familiarly  as  if  he  had  known  them  all  his  life.  But  the  very 
thought  of  whiling  away  the  time  in  this  manner  was  now  dis- 
tasteful to  him.  The  new  situation  in  which  he  was  placed 
seemed  to  have  altered  him  to  himself  already.  Thus  far  his 
life  had  been  the  common,  trifling,  prosaic,  surface-life  of  a 
prosperous  young  man,  -with  no  troubles  to  conquer  and  no 
trials  to  face.  He  had  lost  no  relation  whom  he  loved,  no  friend 
whom  he  treasured.  Till  this  night  what  share  he  had  of  the 
immortal  inheritance  that  is  divided  among  us  all  had  lain  dor- 
mant within  him.  Till  this  night,  Death  and  he  had  not  once 
met,  even  in  thought. 

He  took  a  few  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  then  stopped. 
The  noise  made  by  Iris  boots  on  the  poorly -carpeted  floor  jarred 
on  his  ear.  He  hesitated  a  little,  and  ended  by  taking  his  boots 
off,  and  walking  backward  and  forward  noiselessly. 

All  desire  to  steep  or  to  rest  had  left  him.  The  bare  thought 
of  lying  dowrn  on  the  unoccupied  bed  instantly  drew  the  picture 
on  his  mind  of  a  dreadful  mimicry  of  the  position  of  the  dead 
man.  Who  was  he?  What  was  the  story  of  his  past  life.  Poor 
he  must  have  been,  or  he  would  not  have  stopped  at  such  a  place 
as  the  two  Robins  Inn;  and  weakened,  probably,  by  long  ill- 
ness, or  he  could  hardly  have  died  in  the  manner  which  the 
landlord  had  described.  Poor,  ill,  lonely — dead  in  a  strange 


nil': 

place — dead,  with  nobody  but  a  stranger  to  pity  him.     A  sad 
i  y;  truly,  on  the  men-  fare  of  it,  a  v  ry! 

While  these  thoughts  \  sing  through  his  mind 

stopped  insensibly  at  the  window,  close  to  which   stood  th> 
of  the  bed  with  the  closed  curtains.     At  first  he  looked  at  it  ab- 
sently; then  he  became  conscious  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  it: 
thru  a  perverse  desire  took  possession  of  him  to  do  the 
tiling  which  he  had  resolved  not  to  do  up  to  this  time — to  look 
at  the  dead  man. 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  the  'curtains,  but  die 
himself  in  the  very  act  of  undrawing  them,   turned  his  back 
sharply  on  the  bed,  and  walked  toward  the  chimney-pier 
see  what  things  were  placed  011  it,  and  to  try  if  he  could  keep 
the  dead  man  out  of  his  mind  in  that  way. 

There  was  a  pewter  ink-stand  on  the  chimney-piece,  with  some 
mildewed  remains  of  ink  in  the  bottle.  There  were  two  coarse 
china  ornaments  of  the  commonest  kind;  and  there  was  a  square 
of  embossed  card,  dirty  and  fly-blown,  with  a  collection  of 
wretched  riddles  printed  on  it,  in  all  sorts  of  zigzag  directions, 
and  in  variously  colored  inks.  He  took  the  card  and  went  a  way 
to  read  it  at  the  table  on  which  the  candle  was  placed,  sitting 
down  with  his  back  resolutely  turned  to  the  curtained  bed. 

He  read  the  first  riddle,  the  second,  the  third,  all  in  one  corner 
of  the  card,  then  turned  it  round  impatiently  to  look  at  another. 
Before  he  could  begin  reading  the  riddles  printed  here  the  sound 
of  the  church  clock  stopped  him. 

Eleven. 

He  had  got  through  an  hour  of  the  time  in  the  room  with  the 
dead  man. 

Once  more  he  looked  at  the  card.  It  was  not  easy  to  make  out 
the  letters  printed  on  it  in  consequence  of  the  dimness  of  the 
light  which  the  landlord  had  left  him — a  common  tallow  candle, 
furnished  with  a  pair  of  heavy  old  fashioned  steel  snuffers.  Up 
to  this  time  his  mind  had  been  too  much  occupied  co  think  of 
the  light.  He  had  left  the  wick  of  the  candle  unsnuffed  till  it 
had  risen  higher  than  the  flame,  and  had  burned  into  an  odd 
pent-house  shape  at  the  top,  from  which  morsels  of  the  charred 
cotton  fell  off  from  time  to  time  in  little  flakes.  He  took  up  the 
snuffers  now  and  trimmed  the  wick.  The  light  brightened  di- 
rectly, and  the  room  became  less  dismal. 

Again  he  turned  to  the  riddles,  reading  them  doggedly  and 
resolutely,  now  in  one  corner  of  the  card,  now  in  another.  All 
his  efforts,  however,  could  not  fix  his  attention  on  th«-m.  lie 
pursued  his  occupation  mechanic-ally,  deriving  no  sort  of  im- 
pression from  what  he  was  reading.  It  if  a  shadow  from 
the  curtained  bed  had  got  between  the  mind  and  the  «_ 
printed  letters — a  shadow  that  nothing  could  di  \t  last  he 
gave  up  the  struggle,  threw  the  card  from  him  impatiently, 
and  took  to  walking  softly  up  and  down  the  room  again. 

The  dead  man,  the  dead  man,  the  Indden  dead  man  on  the 
bed! 

There  was  the  one  persistent  idea  still  haunting  him.  Hid- 
den I  Was  it  only  the  body  being  there,  or  was  it  the  body  be- 


134  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

ing  there,  concealed,  that  was  preying  on  bis  mind  ?  He  stopped 
at  the  window  with  that  doubt  in  him,  once  more  listening  to 
the  pattering  rain,  once  more  looking  out  into  the  black  dark- 
ness. 

Still  the  dead  man! 

The  darkness  forced  his  mind  back  upon  itself,  and  set  his 
memory  at  work;  reviving  with  a  painfully  vivid  distinctness 
the  momentary  impression  it  had  received  from  his  first  sight  of 
the  corpse.  Before  long  the  face  seemed  to  be  hovering  out  in 
the  middle  of  the  darkness,  confronting  him  through  the  win- 
dow, with  the  paleness  whiter — with  the  dreadful  dull  line  of 
light  between  the  imperfectly-closed  eyelids  broader  than  he  had 
seen  it — with  the  parted  lips  slowly  dropping  further  and  further 
away  from  each  other — with  the  features  growing  larger  and 
moving  closer,  till  they  seemed  to  fill  the  window,  and  to  silence 
the  rain,  and  to  shut  out  the  night. 

The  sound  of  a  voice  shouting  below  stairs  woke  him  suddenly 
from  the  dream  of  his  own  distempered  fancy.  He  recognized 
it  as  the  voice  of  the  landlord. 

"Shut  up  at  twelve,  Ben,"  he  heard  it  say.  "  I'm  off  to 
bed." 

He  wiped  away  the  damp  that  had  gathered  on  his  forehead, 
reasoned  with  himself  for  a  little  while,  and  resolved  to  shake 
his  mind  free  of  the  ghastly  counterfeit  which  still  clung  to  it 
by  forcing  himself  to  confront,  if  it  was  only  for  a  moment,  the 
solemn  reality.  Without  allowing  himself  an  instant  to  hesi- 
tate, he  parted  the  curtains  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  looked 
through. 

There  was  the  sad,  peaceful,white  face, with  the  awful  mystery 
of  stillness  on  it,  laid  back  upon  the  pillow.  No  stir,  no  change 
there!  He  only  looked  at  it  for  a  moment  before  he  closed  the 
curtains  again,  but  that  moment  steadied  him,  calmed  him,  re- 
stored him — mind  and  body — to  himself.  He  returned  to  his  old 
occupation  of  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  persevering  in  it 
this  time  till  the  clock  struck  again. 

Twelve. 

As  the  sound  of  the  clock-bell  died  away,  it  was  succeeded  by 
the  confused  noise  down-stairs  of  the  drinkers  in  the  room 
leaving  the  house.  The  next  sound,  after  an  interval  of  silence, 
was  caused  by  the  barring  of  the  door  and  the  closing  of  the 
shutters  at  the  back  of  the  inn.  Then  the  silence  followed 
again,  and  was  disturbed  no  more. 

He  was  alone  now — absolutely,  hopelessly  alone  with  the  dead 
man  till  the  next  morning. 

The  wick  of  the  candle  wanted  trimming  again.  He  took  up 
the  snuffers,  but  paused  suddenly  on  the  very  point  of  using 
them,  cr.l  looked  attentively  at  the  candle — then  back,  over  his 
should  e:,  at  the  curtained  bed — then  again  at  the  candle.  It  had 
been  lighted  for  the  first  time  to  show  him  the  way  up-stairs,  and 
three  parts  of  it,  at  least,  were  already  consumed.  In  another 
hour  it  would  be  burned  out.  In  another  hour,  unless  he  called 
at  once  to  the  man  who  had  shut  up  the  inn  for  a  fresh  candle, 
be  would  be  left  in  the  dark. 


Til E    QUEEN    OF 

Strongly  as  his  mind  had  boon  affected  since  ho  had  entered 
the  room,  his  unreasonable  dread  of  encountering  ridicule  and 
of  exposing  his  courage  to  suspicion  had  not  altogether  lost  its 
influence  over  him  even  yet. 

He  lingered  irresolutely  by  the  table,  waiting  till  he  could 
iil  on  himself  to  open  the  door,  and  call  from  the  landing, 
to  the  man  who  had  shut  up  the  inn.  In  his  present  h<  -.-it  a  ting 
frame  of  mind,  it  was  a  kind  of  relief  to  gain  a  few  mon 
only  by  engaging  in  the  trifling  occupation  of  snuffing  the 
candle.  His  hand  trembled  a  little,  and  the  snuffers  were  heavy 
and  awkward  to  use.  When  he  closed  them  on  the  wick,  he 
closed  them  a  hairs  breadth  too  low.  In  an  instant  the  candle 
was  out,  and  the  room  was  plunged  in  pitch  darkness. 

The  one  impression  which  the  absence  of  light  immediately 
produced  on  his  mind  was  distrust  of  the  curtained  bed — distrust 
which  shaped  itself  into  no  distinct  idea,  but  which  was  powerful 
enough,  in  its  very  vagueness,  to  bind  him  down  to  his  chair,  to 
make  his  heart  beat  fast,  and  to  set  him  listening  intently.  No 
sound  stirred  in  the  room,  but  the  familiar  sound  of  the  rain 
against  the  window,  louder  and  sharper  now  than  he  had  heard 
it  yet. 

Still  the  vague  distrust,  the  inexpressible  dread  possessed  him, 
and  kept  him  in  his  chair.  He  had  put  his  carpet-bag  on  the 
table  when  he  first  entered  the  room,  and  he  now  took  the  key 
from  his  pocket,  reached  out  his  hand  softly,  opened  the  bag, 
and  groped  in  it  for  his  traveling  writing-case,  in  which  he  knew 
that  tin -re  was  a  small  store  of  matches.  When  he  had  got  one  of 
the  matches,  he  waited  before  he  struck  it  on  the  coarse  wooden 
table,  and  listened  intently  again  without  knowing  why.  Still 
there  was  no  sound  in  the  room  but  the  steady,  ceaseless  rattling 
sound  ot  the  rain. 

He  lighted  the  candle  again  without  another  moment  of  delay, 
and,  on  the  instant  of  its  burning  up,  the  first  object  in  the  room 
that  his  eyes  sought  for  was  the  curtained  bed. 

Just  before  the  light  had  been  put  out  he  had  looked  in  that 
direction,  and  had  seen  no  change,  no  disarrangement  of  any 
sort  in  the  folds  of  the  closely- drawn  curtains. 

When  he  looked  at  the  bed  now,  he  saw  hanging  over  the  side 
of  it  a  long  white  hand. 

It  lay  perfectly  motionless  midway  on  the  side  of  the  bed, 
where  the  enrtain  at   the  head  and  the  curtain  at  the  foot 
Nothing  more  was    visible.     The  clinging  curtains  hid   i  ' 
thing  but  the  long  white  hand. 

He  stood  looking  at  it,  unable  to  stir,  unable  to  call  out — feel- 
ing   nothing,    knowing    nothim  lie    posst 
gathered  up  and  lost  in  the  one  seeing  faculty.     How  long  that 
[rank-   held  him    he  never  could    tell  afterward.     It  might 
have  been  01  dy  for  a    moment — it   mi^ht  have  been  for  many 
minutes  together.     Ho\v  he  got  to  ;             —whether  he  nr 
it    ht              .    or  whether    he    approached    it    slowly— how    he 
wrought  himself  up  to  unclose  the  curtains  and  look  m,  he  never 
has  remembered,  and  never  will  remember  to  his  dying  day.    It 


136  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

is  enough  that  he  did  go  to  the  bed,  and  that  he  did  look  inside 
the  curtains. 

The  man  had  moved.  One  of  his  arms  was  outside  the  clothes; 
his  face  was  turned  a  little  on  the  pillow;  his  eye-lids  were  wide 
open.  Changed  as  to  position  and  as  to  one  of  the  features,  the 
face  was  otherwise  fearfully  and  wonderfully  unaltered.  The 
dead  paleness  and  the  dead  quiet  were  on  it  still. 

One  glance  showed  Arthur  this — one  glance  before  he  flew 
breathlessly  to  the  door  and  alarmed  the  house. 

The  man  whom  the  landlord  called  "  Ben  "  was  the  first  to  ap- 
pear on  the  stairs.  In  three  words  Arthur  told  him  what  had 
happened,  and  sent  him  for  the  nearest  doctor. 

I,  who  tell  yon  this  story,  was  then  staying  with  a  medical 
friend  of  mine,  in  practice  at  Doncaster,  taking  care  of  his 
patients  for  him  during  absence  in  London;  and  I,  for  the  time 
being,  was  the  nearest  doctor.  They  had  sent  for  me  from  the 
inn  when  the  stranger  was  taken  ill  in  the  afternoon,  but  I  was 
not  at  home,  and  medical  assistance  was  sought  for  elsewhere. 
When  the  man  from  the  Two  Robins  rang  the  night-bell,  I  was 
just  thinking  of  going  to  bed.  Naturally  enough,  I  did  not 
believe  a  word  of  his  story  about  "  a  dead  man  who  had  come 
to  life  again."  However,  I  put  on  my  hat,  armed  myself  with 
one  or  two  bottles  of  restorative  medicine,  and  ran  to -the  inn, 
expecting  to  find  nothing  more  remarkable,  when  I  got  there, 
than  a  patient  in  a  fit. 

My  surprise  at  finding  that  the  man  had  spoken  the  literal 
truth  was  almost,  if  not  quite,  equaled  by  my  astonishment  at 
finding  myself  face  to  face  with  Arthur  Holliday  as  soon  as  I 
entered  the  bedroom.  It  was  no  time  then  for  giving  or  seeking 
explanations.  We  just  shook  hands  amazedly,  and  then  I 
ordered  everybody  but  Arthur  out  of  the  room,  and  hurried  to 
the  man  on  the  bed. 

The  kitchen  fire  had  not  been  long  out.  There  was  plenty  of 
hot  water  in  the  boiler,  and  plenty  of  flannel  to  be  had.  With 
these,  with  my  medicines,  and  with  such  help  as  Arthur  could 
render  under  my  direction,  I  dragged  the  man  literally  out  of 
the  jaws  of  death.  In  less  than  an  hour  from  the  time  when  I 
had  been  called  in,  he  was  alive,  and  talking  in  the  bed  on  which 
he  had  been  laid  out  to  wait  for  the  coroner's  inquest. 

You  will  naturally  ask  me  what  had  been  the  matter  with 
him,  aud  I  might  treat  you,  in  reply,  to  a  long  theory,  plentifully 
sprinkled  with  what  the  children  call  hard  words.  I  prefer  tell- 
ing you  that,  in  this  case,  cause  and  effect  could  not  be  satisfac- 
torily joined  together  by  any  theory  whatever.  There  are  mys- 
teries in  life  and  the  conditions  of  it  which  human  science  has 
not  fathomed  yet;  and  I  candidly  confess  to  you  that,  in  bring- 
ing that  man  back  to  existence,  I  was,  morally  speaking,  groping 
haphazard  in  the  dark.  I  know  (from  the  testimony  of  the  doc- 
tor who  attended  him  in  the  afternoon)  that  the  vital  machinery, 
so  far  as  its  action  is  appreciable  by  our  senses,  had,  in  this  case, 
unquestionably  stopped,  and  I  am  equally  certain  (seeing  that  I 
recovered  him)  that  the  vital  principle  was  not  extinct.  When  I 
add  that  fee  had  suffered  from  a  long  and  complicated  illness, 


Til  137 

and  that  his  whole  nerv  utterly  deranged.  I  have 

told  you  all  [  really  know  of  the  physical  condition  of  my  dead- 
patient  at  the  T\vo  Ivobins  Inn. 

When  !  3  tlu-  phrase  goes,  he  was  a  startling  oh- 

to   look   at,  with   his  colorless    fare,  hi-  sunken  ol 

wild  bla<  .  and  his  long  black  hair.     The  first  (pi 

I    me  about    himself   when  he  could  speak  made  in 

that    I   had    been   called  in   to   a  man  in  my  own  prole— ion.     I 

mentioned  to  him  my  surmise,  and  he  told  me  that  I  \\ 

He  said  he  had  come  last  from  Paris,  where  he  had 
tached  to  a  hospital;  that  he  had  lately  returned  to  Kn^land,  on 
his  way  to  Edinburgh,  to  continue  his  studies;  that  he  had  been 
taken  ill  on  the  journey;  and  that  he  had  stopped  to  rest  and  re- 
cover himself  at  Doncaster.  He  did  not  add  a  word  about  his 
name,  or  who  he  was,  and  of  course  I  did  not  question  him  on 
the  subject.  All  I  inquired  when  he  ceased  speaking  was  what 
branch  of  the  profession  he  intended  to  follow. 

"  Any  branch,"  he  said,  bitterly,  "which  will  put  bread  into 
the  mouth  of  a  poor  man." 

At  this,  Arthur,  who  had  been  hitherto  watching  him  in  si- 
lent curiosity,  burst  out  impetuously  in  his  usual  good-humored 
way: 

"My  dear  fellow  "  (every  body  was  "  my  dear  fellow"  with 
Arthur),  "  now  you  have  come  to  life  again,  don't  begin  by 
being  downhearted  about  your  prospects.  I'll  answer  for  it  I 
can  help  you  to  some  capital  thing  in  the  medical  line,  or  if  I 
can't,  I  know  my  father  can/' 

The  medical  student  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said  coldly;  then  added,  "  May  I  ask  who 
your  father  is  ?" 

ri  He's  well  enough  known  all  about  this  part  of  the  country." 
renlied  Arthur.     "  He  is  a  great  manufacturer,  and  his  na: 
llolliday." 

My  hand  was  on  the  man's  wrist  during  this  brief  convt 
lion.     The  instant  the  name  of  Holliday   was  pronounced  I  felt 
the  pulse  under  my  fingers  flutter,  stop,  go  on  suddenly  with  a 
bound,  and  b-  at  afterward  for  a  minute  or  two  at  the  fever  rate. 

11  How  did  you  come  here?"  asked  the  stranger,  quickly, 
citably.   passionately  almost. 

Arthur  related  briefly  what  had  happened  from  the  time  of 
his  first  taking  the  bed  ;it  the  inn. 

"  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Holliday's  son,  then,  for  the  help  rhat 
i   my  lit-  I  the  medical  student,  sp.-.-ikin.i;-  to  him- 

self, with  a  singulai  M   in  his  voice.      "Tom 

He  held  out.  as  lie  spoke,  his  I.-n^.  white.   l>ony  right  hand. 

"  With  all  iny  heart,"  said  Arthur,  taking  his  hand  cordially. 
"I  may  confess  it  now."  lie  continued,  lau^hini;.  "upon  my 
honor,  you  almost  frightened  me  out  of  my  \\ 

mger  did  not  seem  to  listen.     Hiswild 
with  a  look  of  eager  interest  on  Arthur  long 

lit  hold  on  Arthur's  hand.  Young  I  loll- 
on  his  side,  returned  the  gaze,  amazed  and  puzzled  by  the  n 
cal  student's  odd  language  and  manners.  The  two  faces  were 


138  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

close  together:  I  looked  at  them,  and,  to  my  amazement,  I  was 
suddenly  impressed  by  the  sense  of  a  likeness  between  them — 
not  in  features  or  complexion,  but  solely  in  expression.  It  must 
have  been  a  strong  likeness,  or  I  should  certainly  not  have  found 
it  out,  for  I  am  naturally  slow  in  detecting  resemblances  be- 
tween faces. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,"  said  the  strange  man,  still  looking 
hard  in  Arthur's  face,  still  holding  tightly  by  his  hand.  "If 
you  had  been  my  own  brother,  you  could  not  have  done  more  for 
me  than  that." 

He  laid  a  singularly  strong  emphasis  on  those  three  words, 
"  my  own  brother,"  and  a  change  passed  over  his  face  as  he  pro- 
nounced them — a  change  that  no  language  of  mine  is  competent 
to  describe. 

"I  hope  I  have  not  done  being  of  service  to  you  yet,"  said  Ar- 
thur. "  I'll  speak  to  my  father  as  soon  as  I  get  home." 

"  You  seem  to  be  fond  and  proud  of  your  father,"  said  the 
medical  student.  "  I  suppose,  in  return,  he  is  fond  and  proud  of 
you  ?" 

"Of  course  he  is,"  answered  Arthur,  laughing.  "Is  there 
anything  wonderful  in  that  ?  Isn't  your  father  fond " 

The  stranger  suddenly  dropped  young  Holliday's  hand  and 
turned  his  face  away. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Arthur.  "  I  hope  I  have  not  unin- 
tentionally pained  you.  I  hope  you  have  not  lost  your  father?" 

"  I  can't  well  lose  what  I  have  never  had,"  retorted  the  medi- 
cal student,  with  a  harsh,  mocking  laugh. 

"  What  you  have  never  had!" 

The  strange  man  suddenly  caught  Arthur's  hand  again,  sud- 
denly looked  once  more  hard  in  his  face. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  repetition  of  the  bitter  laugh.  "  You 
have  brought  a  poor  devil  back  into  the  world  who  has  no  busi- 
ness there.  Do  I  astonish  you  ?  Well,  I  have  a  fancy  of  my 
own  for  telling  you  what  men  in  my  situation  generally  keep  a 
secret.  I  have  no  name  and  no  father.  The  merciful  law  of 
society  tells  me  I  am  nobody's  son!  Ask  your  father  if  he  will 
be  my  father  too,  and  help  me  on  in  life  with  the  family  name." 

Arthur  looked  at  me  more  puzzled  than  ever. 

I  signed  to  him  to  say  nothing,  and  then  laid  my  fingers  again 
on  the  man's  wrist.  No,  in  spite  of  the  extraordinary  speech 
that  he  had  just  made,  he  was  not,  as  I  had  been  disposed  to 
suspect,  beginning  to  get  light-headed.  His  pulse,  by  this  time, 
had  fallen  back  to  a  quiet,  slow  beat,  and  his  skin  was  moist  ami 
cool.  Not  a  symptom  of  fever  or  agitation  about  him. 

Finding  that  neither  of  us  answered  him,  he  turned  to  me,  and 
began  talking  of  the  extraordinary  nature  of  his  case,  and  ask- 
ing my  advice  about  the  future  course  of  medical  treatment  to 
which  he  ought  to  subject  himself.  I  said  the  matter  required 
careful  thinking  over,  and  suggested  that  I  should  send  him  a 
prescription  a  little  later.  He  told  me  to  write  it  at  once,  as  he 
would  most  likely  be  leaving  Doncaster  in  the  morning  before  I 
was  up.  It  was  quite  useless  to  represent  to  him  the  folly  and 
danger  of  such  a  proceeding  as  this.  He  heard  me  politely  and 


V    OF    III  130 

ntly,  but  hold  to  li  ition.  without  offering  an 

xplanation,  and  repeated  to  me  that,  if  1  u 
liim  a  chance  nf  seeing  my  prescription,  I  must  write  it  at  « 

Hearing  this,  Arthur  volunteered  the  loan  of  a  travel! 

which  he  said  he  had  with  him,  and  bringing  it  to  the 

-hook  the  note  paj>er  out  of  the  pocket  of  the  case  forth  with 

in  his  usual  •  way.     With  the  paper  there  fell  out  on  the 

counterpane  of  the  hed  a  small  packet  of  sticking-plaster,  and  a 

little  water  color  drawing  of  a  landscape. 

The  medical  student  took  up  the  drawing  and  looked  at  it. 

<  II  on  some  initials  neatly  written  in  cipher  in  one 
ner.     He  started  and  trembled;  his  pale  face  grew  whiter  than 
ever;  his  wild  black  eyes  turned  on  Arthur,  and  looked  through 
and  through  him. 

"A  pretty  drawing,"  he  said,  in  a  remarkably  quiet  tone  of 
voice. 

''Ah!  and  done  by  such  a  pretty  girl,"  said  Arthur.  "Oh, 
such  a  pretty  girl!  I  wish  it  was  not  a  landscape — I  wish  it  was 
a  portrait  of  her!" 

"  You  admire  her  very  much?" 

Arthur,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest,  kissed  his  hand  for  an- 
swer. 

"  Love  at  first  sight,"  said  young  Holliday,  putting  the  draw- 
ing away  again.  "  But  the  course  of  it  doesn't  run  smooth. 
It's  the  old  story.  She's  monopolized,  as  usual;  trammeled  by  a 
rash  engagement  to  some  poor  man  who  is  never  likely  t 
money  enough  to  marry  her.  It  was  lucky  I  heard  of  it  in  tiuip. 
or  I  should  certainly  have  risked  a  declaration  when  she  gave  me 
that  drawing.  Here,  doctor,  here  is  pen,  ink,  and  paper  all 
ready  for  you." 

"  When  she  gave  you  that  drawing?    Gave  it?  gave  it  ?'' 

He  repeated  the  words  slowly  to  himself,  and  suddenly  ci 
his  eyes.  A  momentary  distortion  passed  across  his  face,  and  I 
saw  one  of  his  hands  clutch  up  the  bedclothes  and  squeeze  them 
hard.  I  thought  he  was  going  to  be  ill  again,  and  pegged  that 
there  might  be  no  more  talking.  He  opened  his  eyes  when  ( 
spoke,  fixed  them  once  more  searclungly  on  Arthur,  and  said, 
slowly  and  distinctly: 

"You  like  her,  and  she  likes  you.     The  poor  man  may  die  out 
of  your  way.     Who  can  tell  that  she  may  not  give  you  he: 
as  well  as  her  drawing  after  all?" 

Before  young  Holliday  could  answer,  he  turned  to  me. 
said  in  a  whisper.  "Now  for  the  prescription."  From  that  t 
though  he  spoke  to  Arthur  again,  he  never  looked  at  him  n 

When  I  had  written  the  prescription,  he  examined  it,  :i ; 
of  it.  and  then  astonished  us  both  by  abruptly  wisl,  good- 

night.    I  offered   to  sir  up  with  him.  and    lie  shook    1; 
Arthur  offered  to  sit  up  with  him.  and  he  said,  shortly,  with  his 
face  turned  away.  "  No."     I  insisted  on  having  -  iv  left  to 

h    him.     He  gave  way  when   he   found   I  was  detenu 
and  said  he  would  accept  the  services  of  the  waiter  at  the  inn. 

nank   you   both,"  he  said,  as  w.  i  go.      "  I  have  one 

last  favor  to  ask— not  of  you,  doctor,  for  1  1.  u  to  exercise 


140  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

your  professional  discretion,  but  of  Mr.  Holliday."  His  eyes, 
while  he  spoke,  still  rested  steadily  on  me.  and  never  once 
turned  toward  Arthur.  "  I  beg  that  Mr.  Holliday  will  not  men- 
tion to  any  one,  least  of  all  to  his  father,  the  events  that  have 
occurred  and  the  words  that  have  passed  in  this  room.  I  en- 
treat him  to  bury  me  in  his  memory  as,  but  for  him,  I  might 
have  been  buried  in  my  grave.  I  cannot  give  my  reasons  for 
making  this  strange  request.  I  can  only  implore  him  to 
grant  it." 

His  voice  faltered  for  the  first  time,  and  he  hid  his  face  on  the 
pillow.  Arthur,  completely  bewildered,  gave  the  required 
pledge.  I  took  young  Holliday  away  with  me  immediately 
afterward  to  the  house  of  my  friend,  determining  to  go  back  to 
the  inn  and  to  see  the  medical  student  again  before  he  left  in  the 
morning. 

I  returned  to  the  inn  at  eight  o'clock,  purposely  abstaining 
from  waking  Arthur,  who  was  sleeping  off  the  past  night's  ex- 
citement on  one  of  my  friend's  sofas.  A  suspicion  had  occurred 
to  me,  as  soon  as  I  was  alone  in  my  bedroom,  which  made  me 
resolve  that  Holliday  and  the  stranger  whose  life  he  had  saved 
should  not  meet  again,  if  I  could  prevent  it. 

I  have  already  alluded  to  certain  reports  or  scandals  which  I 
knew  of  relating  to  the  early  life  of  Arthur's  father.  While  I 
was  thinking,  in  my  bed,  of  what  had  passed  at  the  inn;  of  the 
change  in  the  student's  pulse  when  he  heard  the  name  of  Holli- 
day; of  the  resemblance  of  expression  that  I  had  discovered  be- 
tween his  face  and  Arthur's;  of  the  emphasis  he  had  laid  on  those 
three  words,  "  my  own  brother;"  and  his  incomprehensible  ac- 
knowledgment of  his  own  illegitimacy — while  I  was  thinking  of 
these  things,  the  reports  I  have  mentioned  suddenly  flew  into 
my  mind,  and  linked  themselves  fast  to  the  chain  of  my  pre- 
vious reflections.  Something  within  me  whispered,  "It  is  best 
that  those  two  young  men  should  not  meet  again."  I  felt  it  be- 
fore I  slept;  I  felt  it  when  I  woke;  and  I  went,  as  I  told  you, 
alone  to  the  inn  the  next  morning. 

I  had  missed  my  only  opportunity  of  [seeing  my  nameless  pa- 
tient again.  He  had  been  gone  nearly  an  hour  when  I  inquired 
for  him. 

I  have  now  told  you  everything  that  I  know  for  certain  in  re- 
lation to  the  man  whom  I  brought  back  to  life  in  the  double- 
bedded  room  of  the  inn  at  Doncaster.  What  I  have  next  to  add 
is  matter  for  inference  and  surmise,  and  is  not,  strictly  speaking, 
matter  of  fact. 

1  have  to  tell  you,  first,  that  the  medical  student  turned  out  to 
be  strangely  and  unaccountably  right  in  assuming  it  as  more 
than  probabie  that  Arthur  Holliday  would  marry  the  young 
lady  who  had  given  him  the  water-color  drawing  of  the  land- 
scape. That  marriage  took  place  a  little  more  than  a  year  after 
the  events  occurred  which  I  have  just  been  relating. 

The  young  couple  came  to  live  in  the  neighborhood  in  which 
I  was  then  established  in  practice.  I  was  present  at  the  wed- 
ding, and  was  rather  surprised  to  find  that  Arthur  was  singu- 
larly reserved  with  me,  both  before  and  after  his  marriage,  on 


THE    QUEEN   OF    HEARTH,  141 

ct  of  the  young  lady's  prior  ei:  nt.     He  onl 

I  to  it  c  .-realou  y  tolling  UK-,  on  that 

occasion,  that  his  wife  had  done  all  that  honor  and  duty  required 
of  her  in  the  matter,  and  that  the  engagement  had  been  broken 
off  with  the  full  approval  of  her  parents.  I  never  heard  more 
from  him  than  this.  For  three  years  lie  and  his  wife  lived  to« 
gether  happily.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  the  symptoms 
of  a  serious  ilh,<  ieelared  themselves  in  Mrs.  Arthur  Hol- 

.  It  turned  out  to  be  a  long,  lingering,  hopeless  malady. 
I  attended  her  throughout.  We  had  been  great  friends  when 
she  was  well,  and  we  heeame  more  attached  to  each  other  than 
fever  when  she  was  ill.  I  had  many  long  and  interesting  con- 
versations with  her  in  the  intervals  when  she  suffered  least. 
The  result  of  one  of  those  conversations  1  ma}  briefly  relate, 
leaving  you  to  draw  any  inferences  from  it  that  you  please. 

The  interview  to  which  I  refer  occurred  shortly  before  her 
death. 

I  called  one  evening  as  usual,  and  found  her  alone,  with 
a  look  in  her  eyes  which  told  me  she  had  been  crying.  She 
only  informed  me  at  first  that  she  had  been  depressed  in 
spirits,  but  by  little  and  little  she  became  more  communica- 
tive, and  confessed  to  me  that  she  had  been  looking  over  some 
old  letters  which  had  been  addressed  to  her  before  she  had  seen 
Arthur,  by  a  man  to  whom  she  had  been  engaged  to  be  married. 
I  asked  her  how  the  engagement  came  to  be  broken  off.  She 
replied  that  it  had  not  been  broken  off,  but  that  it  had  died  out 
in  a  very  mysterious  manner.  The  person  to  whom  she  was  en- 
gaged— her  first  love  she  called  him — was  very  poor,  and  there 
was  no  immediate  prospect  of  their  being  married.  He  followed 
my  profession,  and  went  abroad  to  study.  They  had  corre- 
sponded regularly  until  the  time  when,  as  she  believed,  he  had 
returned  to  England.  From  that  period  she  heard  no  more  of 
him.  He  was  of  a  fretful  sensitive  temperament,  and  she  feared 
that  she  might  have  inadvertently  done  or  said  something  to 
offend  him.  However  that  might  be,  he  had  never  written  to 
her  again,  and  after  waiting  a  year  she  had  married  Arthur.  I 
asked  when  the  first  estrangement  had  begun,  and  found  that 
the  time  at  which  she  ceased  to  hear  anything  of  her  first  lover 
exactly  corresponded  with  the  time  at  which  I  had  been  called 
in  to  my  mysterious  patient  at  the  Two  Robins  Inn. 

A  fortnight  after  that  conversation  she  died.     In  cours 
time  Arthur  married  again.     Of  late  years  he  has  principally 
lived  in  London,  and  I  have  seen  little  or  nothing  of  him. 

I  have  some  years  to  pass  over  before  I  can  approach  anything 
like  a  conclusion  of  this  fragmentary  narrative.  And  even  when 
that  later  period  is  reached,  the  little  that  I  hav  will  not 

occu;  y  your  attention  for  more  than  a  few  minutes. 

One  rainy  autumn  evening,  while  I  was  still  practicing  as  a 
country  doctor,  I  was  sitting  alone,  thinking  over  a  ease  then 
under  my  charge,  \\hi<-h  .-orely    perplexed   me,  when  1  heard  a 
knock  at  the  door  of  my  room. 

"  Come  in,"  I  cried,  looking  up  curiously  to  see  who  wanted 
me. 


142  THE    QUEEN   OF   HEARTS. 

After  a  niomentary  delay,  the  lock  moved,  and  a  long,  white1, 
bony  hand  stole  around  the  door  as  it  opened,  gently  pushing  it 
over  a  fold  in  the  carpet  which  hindered  it  from  working  freely 
on  the  hinges.  The  hand  was  followed  by  a  man  whose  face  in- 
stantly struck  me  with  a  very  strange  sensation.  There  was 
something  familiar  to  me  in  ,h.  look  of  him,  and  yet  it  was  also 
something  that  suggested  the  idea  of  change. 

He  quietly  introduced  hims  If  as  "  Mr.  Lam,"  presented  to  me 
some  excellent  professional  recommendations,  and  proposed  to 
fill  the  place,  then  vacant,  of  my  assistant.  While  he  was 
speaking  I  noticed  it  as  singular  that  we  did  not  appear  to  be 
meeting  each  other  like  strangers,  and  that,  while  I  was  cer- 
tainly startled  at  seeing  him,  he  did  not  appear  to  be  at  all 
startled  at  seeing  me. 

It  was  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue  to  say  that  I  thought  I  had 
met  with  him  before.  But  there  was  something  in  his  face,  and 
something  in  my  own  recollections — I  can  hardly  say  what — 
which  unaccountably  restrained  me  from  speaking,  and  which 
as  unaccountably  attracted  me  to  him  at  once,  and  made  me 
feel  ready  and  glad  to  accept  his  proposal. 

He  took  his  assistant's  place  on  tha,  very  day.  We  got  on  to- 
gether as  if  we  had  been  old  friends  from  the  first;  but,  through- 
out the  whole  tim  of  his  residence  in  my  house,  he  never  volun- 
teered any  confidences  on  the  subject  of  his  past  life,  and  I 
never  approached  the  forbidden  topic  except  by  hints,  which  he 
resolutely  refused  to  understand. 

I  had  long  had  a  notion  that  my  patient  at  the  inn  might  have 
been  a  natural  son  of  the  elder  Mr.  Holliday's,  and  that  he  might 
also  have  been  the  man  who  was  engaged  to  Arthur's  first  wife. 
And  now  another  idea  occurred  to  me,  that  Mr.  Lar-»  wat,  the 
only  per- on  in  existence  who  could,  if  he  chose,  enlighten  me 
on  both  those  doubtful  points.  But  he  never  did  choose,  and  I 
was  never  enlightened.  He  remained  with  me  till  I  removed  to 
London  to  try  my  fortune  there  as  a  physician  for  the  second 
tune,  and  then  he  went  his  way  and  I  went  mine,  and  we  have 
never  seen  one  another  since. 

I  can  add  no  more.  I  may  have  been  right  in  my  suspicion, 
or  I  may  have  been  wrong.  All  I  know  is  that,  in  those  day  of 
my  country  practice,  when  I  came  home  late,  and  found  my  as- 
sistant asleep,  and  woke  him,  he  used  to  look,  in  coming  to, 
wonderfully  like  the  stranger  at  Doncaster  as  he  raised  himself 
in  the  bed  on  that  memorable  night. 


THE  SIXTH  DAY. 

AN  oppressively  mild  temperature,  and  steady,  soft,  settled 
rain — dismal  weather  for  idle  people  in  the  country.  Miss 
Jessie,  after  looking  longingly  out  of  the  window,  resigned  her- 
self to  circumstances,  and  gave  up  all  hope  of  a  ride.  The  gar- 
dener, the  conservatory,  the  rabbits,  the  raven,  the  housekeeper, 
and,  as  a  last  resource,  even  the  neglected  piano,  were  all  laid 
under  contribution  to  help  her  through  the  time.  It  was  a  long 


THE    QVE1-:X    OF    111  148 

day,  but,  thanks  to  her  own  talent  for  trilling,  t lived  to 

occupy  it  pleasantly  enough. 

Still  no  news  of  my  sou.     The  time  was  getting  on  now,  and 
:;s  surely  not  unreasonable  to  look  for  some  tidings  of  him. 

To-day  i  and  I  both  finished  our  third  and 

I  corrected  my  brother's  contribution  with  no  very  great  diffi- 
culty on,  this  occasion,  and  numbered  it  Nine.  My  own  story 
came  next,  and  was  thus  accidentally  distinguished  as  the 

— Number  Ten.  When  I  dropped  the  two  corre- 
sponding cards  into  the  bowl,  the  thought  that  there  would  be 
no  more  to  add  seemed  to  quicken  my  prevailing  sense  of 
anxiety  on  the  subject  of  George's  return.  A  heary  depre 
hung  upon  my  spirits,  and  I  went  out  desperately  in  the  rain  to 
shake  my  mind  free  of  oppressing  influences  by  dint  of  hard 
bodily  exercise. 

The  number  drawn  this  evening  was  Three.  On  the  produc- 
tion of  the  corresponding  manuscript,  it  proved  to  be  my  turn  to 
read  again. 

"  I  can  promise  you  a  little  variety  to-night,"  I  said,  address- 
ing our  fair  guest,  "  if  I  can  promise  nothing  else.     This  time  it 
is  not  a  story  of  my  own  writing  that  I  am  about  to  read,  but  a 
of  a  very  curious  correspondence  which  I  found  among  my 
professional  papers." 

Jessie's*  countenance  fell.  "Is  there  no  story  in  it?"  she 
asked,  rather  discontentedly. 

"Certainly  there  is  a  story  in  it,"  I  replied — "a  story  of  a 
much  lighter  kind  than  any  we  have  yet  read,  and  which  may, 
on  that  account,  prove  acceptable,  by  way  of  contrast  and  re- 
lief, even  if  it  fails  to  attract  you  by  other  means.  I  obtained 
the  original  correspondence,  I  must  tell  you,  from  the  office  of 
the  Detective  Police  of  London." 

^ie's  face  brightened.     "  That  promises  something  to  begin 
with.''  she  said. 

onie  years   since,"   I  continued,  "there   was  a  desire  at 
!  to  increase  the  numbers  and  etliciency  or'  the  De- 
tective Police,  and   I  had  the  honor  of  being  one  of  the  persons 
privately  consulted  on  that  occasion.     The  chief  obstacle  to  the 
plan  proposed  lay  in  the  difficulty  of  finding  new  recruits.    The 
ordinary  rank  and  file  of  the  police  of  London  are  sober,  trust- 
iiy,  and  courageous  men,  but  as;i  l.ody  they  are  sadly  want- 
ing in  intelligence.     Knowing  this,  the  authorities  took  int< 
^deration  a  M-hrine.  which   looked   plausible  enough  on    p 

i  hemselves  of  the  service  of  that  p:  My  sharp 

class  of  men,  the  experienced  clerks  in  attorney   3  otii  :nong 

the  persons  whoso  ud\ic<-  was  sought  on  tins  point,  1  was  the 
only  one  who  dissented  from  tl  1.  I  felt 

•.in  that  the  really  expei  i  ierk,  hit  rush  d  with  conduct- 

ing private  investigations  and  hunting  idence, 

too  well  paid  and  too   independently  in    their  various 

offices  to  care  about  entering  the  t  the  Detective  Police, 

and  submitting  themselves  to  the  rigid  discipline  of  Scotland 
Yard,  and  I  ventured  to  predict  that  the  inferior  clerks  only, 
whose  discretion  was  not  to  be  trusted,  would  prove  to  be  the 


144  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

men  who  volunteered  for  detective  employment.  My  advice  was 
not  taken,  and  the  experiment  of  enlisting  the  clerks  was  tried 
in  two  or  three  cases.  I  was  naturally  interested  in  the  result, 
and  in  due  course  of  time  I  applied  for  information  in  the  right 
quarter.  In  reply,  the  originals  of  the  letters  of  which  I  am 
now  about  to  read  the  copies  were  sent  to  me,  with  an  intimation 
that  the  correspondence  in  this  particular  instance  offered  a  fair 
specimen  of  the  results  of  the  experiment  in  the  other  cases. 
The  letters  amused  me,  and  I  obtained  permission  to  copy  them 
before  I  sent  them  back.  You  will  now  hear,  therefore,  by  his 
own  statement,  how  a  certain  attorney's  clerk  succeeded  in  con- 
ducting a  very  delicate  investigation,  and  how  the  regular  mem- 
bers of  the  Detective  Police  contrived  to  help  him  through  his 
first  experiment." 


BROTHER  GRIFFITH'S  STORY  OF  THE  BITER  BIT. 
Extracted  from  the  Correspondence  of  the  London  Police. 

FROM  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE,  OF  THE  DETECTIVE  POLICE 
TO   SERGEANT   BULMER,   OF  THE  SAME  FORCE. 

LONDON,  4th  July,  18—. 

SERGEANT  BULMER, — This  is  to  inform  you  that  you  are  wanted 
to  assist  in  looking  up  a  case  of  importance,  which  will  require 
all  the  attention  of  an  experienced  member  of  the  force.  The 
matter  of  the  robbery  on  which  you  are  no\v  engaged  you  will 
please  to  shift  over  to  the  young  man  who  brings  you  this  letter. 
You  will  tell  him  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  just  as  they 
stand;  you  will  put  him  up  to  the  progress  you  have  made  (if 
any)  toward  detecting  the  person  or  persons  by  whom  the  money 
has  been  stolen;  and  you  will  leave  him  to  make  the  beet  be  can 
of  the  matter  now  in  your  hands.  He  is  to  have  the  whole  re- 
sponsibility of  the  case,  and  the  whole  credit  of  his  success  if  he 
brings  it  to  a  proper  issue. 

So  much  for  the  orders  that  I  am  desired  to  communicate  to 
you. 

A  word  in  your  ear  next,  about  this  new  man  who  is  to  take 
your  place.  His  name  is  Matthew  Sharpin  and  he  is  to  have  the 
chance  given  him  of  dashing  into  our  office  at  one  jump— sup- 
posing he  turns  out  str  ng  enough  to  take  it.  You  will  naturally 
ask  me  how  he  comes  by  this  privilege.  I  can  only  tell  you  that 
he  has  some  uncommonly  strong  interest  to  back  him  in  certain 
high  quarters,  which  you  and  I  had  better  not  mention  except 
under  our  breaths.  He  has  been  a  lawyer's  clerk,  and  he  is 
wonderfully  conceited  in  his  opinion  of  himself,  as  well  as  mean 
and  underhand  to  look  at.  According  to  his  own  account,  he 
leaves  his  old  trade  and  joins  ours  of  his  own  free  will  and  pref- 
erence. You  will  no  more  believe  that  than  I  do.  My  notion  is, 
that  he  has  managed  to  ferret  out  some  private  information  in 
connection  with  the  affairs  of  one  of  his  master's  clients,  which 
makes  him  rather  an  awkward  customer  to  keep  in  the  office  for 
the  future,  and  which,  at  the  same  time,  gives  him  hold  enough 
over  his  employer  to  make  it  dangerous  to  drive  him  into  a  cor 


THE  V    OF  145 

v  turning  him  away.     I  think  the  giving  him  this  unl 
of  chance  among  us  is.  in   plain  words,  pretty  much  like  giving 
him  hush-money  to  keep  him  quiet.     However  that  may  be,  Mr. 
Alatthew  Sharpin  is  to  have  the  case  now  in  your  hands,  and  if 
ds  with  it  lie  pokes  his  ugly  nose  into  our  office  as  sure 
I   put  \o;i  up  to  this,  sergeant,  so  that  you  may  not 
ntand  in  your  own  light  by  giving  the  new  man  any  cause  to 
i plain" of  you  at  h. Mil-quarters,  and  remain  yours, 

FRANCIS  THEAKSTONE. 

FROM  MR.  MATTHEW  SHARPIN  TO  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE. 

LONDON,  5th  July,  18— . 

DEAR  SIR, — Having  now  been  favored  with  the  necessary  in- 

i  ions  from  Sergeant  Bulmer,  i  beg  to  remind  you  of  certain 

dir« ''-lions  which  I  have  received  relating  to  the  report  of  my 

future  proceeding  which  I  am  to  prepare  for  examination   at 

headquarters. 

The  object  of  my  writing,  and  of  your  examining  what  I  have 
written  before  you  send  it  to  the  higher  authorities,  is,  I  am  in- 
formed, to  give  me,  as  an  untried  hand,  the  benefit  of  your  ad- 
vice in  case  I  want  it  (which  I  venture  to  think  I  shall  not)  at 
any  stage  of  my  proceedings.  As  the  extraordinary  circum- 
es  of  the  case  on  which  I  am  now  engaged  make  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  absent  myself  from  the  place  where  the  robbery 
was  committed  until  I  have  made  some  progress  toward  dis- 
covering the  thief,  I  am  necessarily  precluded  from  consulting 
you  personally.  Hence  the  necessity  of  my  writing  down  the 
various  details,  which  might,  perhaps,  be  better  communicated 
ord  of  mouth.  This,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  is  the  position 
in  which  we  are  now  placed.  I  state  my  own  impressions  on 
the  subject  in  writing,  in  order  that  we  may  clearly  understand 
each  otner  at  the  outset;  and  I  have  the  honor  to  remain  your 
obedient  servant,  MATTHEW  SHARPI 

FROM  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE  TO  MR.   MATTHEW  SHARPIN. 

LONDON,  5th  July,  18—. 

SIR, — You  have  begun  by  wasting  time,  ink,  and  paper.  We 
both  of  us  perfectly  well  knew  the  position  we  stood  in  toward 
each  other  when  I  sent  you  with  my  letter  to  Sergeant  Bulmer. 
There  was  not  the  least  need  to  repeat  it  in  writing.  Be  so  good 
as  to  employ  your  pen  in  future  on  the  business  actually  in 
hand. 

You  have  now  three  separate  matters  on  which  to  write  me. 
First,  you  have  to  draw  up  a  statement  of  your  instruct  ion - 
ceived  from  Sergeant  Bulmer,  in  order  to  show  us  that  nothing 
has  escaped   your    memory,  and   that 
quainted  with  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case  which  1 
intrusted  to  you.     Secondly,  you  are  to  inform  me  what 
you   propose  to  do.     Thirdly,  you  are  to  report  every  inch  of 
your  progress  (if  you  make  any)  from  <  i  ay,  and,  if 

be,  from  hour  to  hour  as  well.  This  is  //<»"/•  duty.  As  to  what 
my  duty  may  l>e,  when  I  want  you  to  remind  me  of  it,  I  will 
write  and  tell  you  so.  In  meantime,  I  remain,  yours, 

FRANCIS  THEAKSTONE. 


146  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

FROM  ME.  MATTHEW  SHARPIN  TO  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE. 

LONDON,  6th  July,  18—. 

SIR, — You  are  rather  an  elderly  person,  and,  as  such,  naturally 
inclined  to  be  a  little  jealous  of  men  like  me,  who  are  in  tbe 
prime  of  their  lives  and  their  faculties.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, it  is  my  duty  to  be  considerate  toward  you,  and  not  to 
bear  too  hardly  on  your  small  failings.  I  decline,  therefore, 
altogether  to  take  offense  at  the  tone  of  your  letter;  I  give  you 
the  full  benefit  of  the  natural  generosity  of  my  nature;  I  sponge 
the  very  existence  of  your  surly  communication  out  of  my 
memory — in  short,  Chief  Inspector  Theakstone,  I  forgive  you, 
and  proceed  to  business. 

My  first  duty  is  to  draw  up  a  full  statement  of  the  instructions 
I  have  received  from  Sergeant  Bulmer.  Here  they  are  at  your 
service,  according  to  my  version  of  them. 

At  number  13  Rutherford  Street,  Soho,  there  is  a  stationer's 
shop.  It  is  kept  by  one  Mr.  Yatman.  He  is  a  married  man,  but 
has  no  family.  Besides  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman,  the  other  inmates 
in  the  house  are  a  lodger,  a  young  single  man  named  Jay,  who 
occupies  the  front  room  on  the  second  floor — a  shopman,  who 
sleeps  in  one  of  the  attics,  and  a  servant-of-all-work,  whose  bed 
is  in  the  back  kitchen.  Once  a  week  a  char-woman  comes  to 
help  this  servant.  These  are  all  the  persons  who,  on  ordinary 
occasions,  have  means  of  access  to  the  interior  of  the  house, 
placed,  as  a  mutter  of  course,  at  their  disposal. 

Mr.  Yatman  has  been  in  business  for  many  years,  carrying  on 
his  affairs  prosperously  enough  to  realize  a  handsome  independ- 
ence for  a  person  in  his  position.  Unfortunately  for  himself, 
he  endeavored  to  increase  the  amount  of  his  property  by  specu- 
lating. He  ventured  boldly  in  his  investments;  luck  went 
against  him;  and  rather  less  than  two  years  ago  he  found  him- 
self a  poor  man  again.  All  that  was  saved  out  of  the  wreck  of 
his  property  was  the  sum  of  two  hundred  pounds. 

Although  Mr.  Yatman  did  his  best  to  meet  his  altered  circum- 
stances, by  giving  up  many  of  the  luxuries  and  comforts  to  which 
he  and  his  wife  had  been  accustomed,  he  found  it  impossible  to 
retrench  so  far  as  to  allow  of  putting  by  any  money  from  the  in- 
come produced  by  his  shop.  The  business  has  been  declining  of 
late  years,  the  cheap  advertising  stationers  having  done  it  injury 
with  the  public.  Consequently,  up  to  the  last  week,  the  only 
surplus  property  possessed  by  Mr.  Yatman  consisted  of  the  two 
hundred  pounds  which  had  been  recovered  from  the  wreck  of 
his  fortune.  This  sum  was  placed  as  a  deposit  in  a  joint-stock 
bank  of  the  highest  possible  character. 

Eight  days  ago  Mr.  Yatman  and  his  lodger,  Mr.  Jay,  held  a 
conversation  on  the  subject  of  the  commercial  difficulties  which 
are  hampering  trade  in  all  directions  at  the  present  time.  Mr. 
Jay  (who  lives  by  supplying  the  newspapers  with  short  para- 
graphs relating  to  accidents,  offenses,  and  brief  records  of  re- 
markable occurrences  in  general — who  is,  in  short,  what  they 
call  a  penny-a-liner)  told  his  landlord  that  he  had  been  in  the 
city  that  clay  and  heard  unfavorable  rumors  on  the  subject  of  the 


THE    QV  '/''    HI-: ARTS.  147 

joint-stock  banks.  The  rumors  to  which  he  alluded  had  all- 
ot' Mr.  Yatman  from  other  quarters,  and  the 
continuation  of  them  by  his  lodger  had  such  an  effect  on  his 
mind — predisposed  as  it  was  to  alarm  by  the  experience  of  his 
former  lo-^.-s — that  he  resolved  to  go  at  once  to  the  hank  and 
withdraw  his  deposit.  It  was  then  getting  on  toward  the  end  of 
the  afternoon,  and  lie  arrived  just  in  time  to  receive  his  money 
before  the  hank  closed. 

He  received  the  deposit  in  bank-notes  of  the  following 
amounts:  one  fifty-pound  note,  three  twenty-pound  note- 
ten-pound  notes,  and  six  five-pound  notes.  His  object  in  draw- 
ing the  money  in  this  form  was  to  have  it  ready  to  lay  out  imme- 
diately in  trifling  loans,  on  good  security,  among  the  small 
trades-people  of  his  district,  some  of  whom  are  sorely  pressed 
for  the  very  means  of  existence  at  the  present  time.  Invest- 
ments of  this  kind  seemed  to  Mr.  Yatman  to  be  the  most  safe 
and  the  most  profitable  on  which  he  could  now  venture. 

He  brought  the  money  back  in  an  envelope  placed  in  his 
breast  pocket,  and  asked  his  shopman,  on  getting  home,  to  look 
for  a  small,  flat,  tin  cash-box,  which  had  not  been  used  for 
years,  and  which,  as  Mr.  Yatman  remembered  it,  was  exactly 
of  the  right  size  to  hold  the  bank-notes.  For  some  time  the 
cash-box  was  searched  for  in  vain.  Mr.  Yatman  called  to  his 
to  know  if  she  had  any  idea  where  it  was.  The  question 
was  overheard  by  the  servant-of -all- work,  who  was  taking  up 
the  tea-tray  at  the  time,  and  by  Mr.  Jay,  who  was  coming  down- 
stairs on  his  way  out  to  the  theater.  Ultimately  the  cash-box 
was  found  by  the  shopman.  Mr.  Yatman  placed  the  bank- 
notes in  it,  secured  them  by  a  padlock,  and  put  the  box  in  his 
coat  pocket.  It  stuck  out  of  the  coat  pocket  a  very  little,  but 
enough  to  be  seen.  Mr.  Yatman  remained  at  home,  up- stairs, 
all  that  evening.  No  visitors  called.  At  eleven  o'clock  he  went 
to  bed,  and  put  the  cash-box  under  his  pillow. 

When  he  and  his  wife  woke  the  next  morning  the  box  was 
gone.  Payment  of  the  notes  was  immediately  stopped  at  the 
Bank  of  England,  but  no  news  of  the  money  has  been  heard  of 
since  that  time. 

So  far  the  circumstances  of  the  case  are  perfectly  clear.  They 
point  unmistakably  to  the  conclusion  that  the  robbery  must  have 
been  committed  by  some  person  living  in  the  house.  Suspicion 
falls,  therefore,  upon  the  servant-of-all-work,  upon  the  shop- 
man, and  upon  Mr.  Jay.  The  two  first  knew  that  the  cash-box 
l>eing  inquired  for  by  their  master,  but  did  not  know  what 
it  was  he  wanted  to  put  into  it.  They  would  assume,  of  course, 
that  it  was  money.  They  both  had  opportunities  (the  servant 
when  she  took  away  the  tea,  and  the  shopman  when  he  came, 
after  shutting  up,  to  give  the  keys  of  the  till  to  his  master)  of 
ig  the  cash-box  in  Mr.  Yatman's  pocket,  and  of  inferring 
naturally,  from  its  position  there,  that  he  intended  to  take  it 
into  his  bedroom  with  him  at  night. 

Mr.  Jay,  on  the  other  hand,  had  been  told,  during  the  after- 
noon's conversation  on  the  subject  of  joint-stock  banks,  that  his 
landlord  had  a  deposit  of  two  hundred  pounds  in  one  of  them. 


148  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

He  also  knew  that  Mr.  Yatman  left  him  with  the  intention  of 
drawing  that  money  out;  and  he  heard  the  inquiry  for  the  cash- 
box  afterward,  when  he  was  cpming  down-stairs.  He  must, 
therefore,  have  inferred  that  the  money  was  in  the  house,  and 
that  the  cash- box  was  the  receptacle  intended  to  contain  it. 
That  he  could  have  had  any  idea,  however,  of  the  place  in  which 
Mr.  Yatman  intended  to  keep  it  for  the  night  is  impossible,  see- 
ing that  he  went  out  before  the  box  was  found,  and  did  not  re- 
turn till  his  landlord  was  in  bed.  Consequently,  if  he  committed 
the  robbery,  he  must  have  gone  into  the  bedroom  purely  on 
speculation. 

Speaking  of  the  bedroom  reminds  me  of  the  necessity  of 
noticing  the  situation  of  it  in  the  house,  and  the  means  that 
exist  of  gaining  easy  access  to  it  at  any  hour  of  the  night. 

The  room  in  question  is  the  back  room  on  the  first  floor. 
In  consequence  of  Mrs.  Yatmairs  constitutional  nervousness  on 
the  subject  of  fire,  which  makes  her  apprehend  being  burned 
alive  in  her  room,  in  case  of  accident,  by  the  hampering  of  the 
lock  if  the  key  is  turned  in  it,  her  husband  has  never  been  ac- 
customed to  lock  the  bedroom  door.  Both  be  and  his  wife  are, 
by  their  own  admission,  heavy  sleepers;  consequently,  the  risk 
to  be  run  by  any  evil -disposed  persons  wishing  to  plunder  the 
bedroom  was  of  the  most  trilling  kind.  They  could  enter  the 
room  by  merely  turning  the  handle  of  the  door;  and,  if  they 
moved  with  ordinary  caution,  there  was  no  fear  of  their  waking 
the  sleepers  inside.  This  fact  is  of  importance.  It  strengthens 
our  conviction  that  the  money  must  have  been  taken  by  one  of 
the  inmates  of  the  house,  because  it  tends  to  show  that  the  rob- 
bery, in  this  case,  might  have  been  committed  by  persons  not 
possessed  of  the  superior  vigilance  and  cunning  of  the  experi- 
enced thief. 

Such  are  the  circumstances,  as  they  were  related  to  Sergeant 
Bulmer  when  he  was  first  called  in  to  discover  the  guilty  parties, 
and,  if  possible,  to  recover  the  lost  bank-notes.  The  strictest  in- 
quiry which  he  could  institute  failed  of  producing  the  smallest 
fragment  of  evidence  against  any  of  the  persons  on  whom  sus- 
picion naturally  fell.  Their  language  and  behavior  on  being  in- 
formed of  the  robbery  was  perfectly  consistent  with  the  lan- 
guage and  behavior  of  innocent  people.  Sergeant  Bulmer  felt 
from  the  first  that  this  was  a  case  for  private  inquiry  and  secret 
observation.  He  began  by  recommending  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yat- 
man to  affect  a  feeling  of  perfect  confidence  in  the  innocence  of 
the  persons  living  under  their  roof,  and  he  then  opened  the 
campaign  by  employing  himself  in  following  the  goings  and 
comings,  and  in  discovering  the  friends,  the  habits,  and  the  se- 
crets of  the  maid-of-all-work. 

Three  days  and  nights  of  exertion  on  his  own  part,  and  oil 
that  of  others  who  were  competent  to  assist  his  investigations, 
were  enough  to  satisfy  him  that  there  was  no  sound  cause  for 
suspicion  against  the  girl. 

He  next  practiced  the  same  precaution  in  relation  to  the  shop- 
man. There  was  more  difficulty  and  uncertainty  in  privately 
clearing  up  this  person's  character  without  his  knowledge,  but 


TV  V    OF  r$.  149 


'•othed  away  with  t<  B  success; 

and.  though  there  is  not  the  same  amount  of  certainty  in  this 

case  which  there  \\as  in  tho  case  of  the  girl,  there  is  still  fair 

•I  for  supposing  that  the  shopman  has  had  nothing  to  do 

with  the  robbery  of  the  cash-box. 

As  a  ne<  .<>M<|Utiice  of  these  proceedings,  the  range  of 

icion  no\v  heroines  limited  to  the  lodger,  Mr.  J. 

"When  I  presented  your  letter  of  introduction  to  Sergeant  Bul- 

lie  had  already  made  some  inquiries  on  the  subject  of  this 

young  man.     The  result,  so  far,  has  not  been  at  all  favorable. 

Mr.  Jay's  habits  are  irregular:  he  frequents  public  houses,  and 

be  familiarly  acquainted  with  a  great  many  dissolute 

characters;  he  is  in  debt  to  most  of  the  tradespeople  whom  lie 

employs;  he  has  not  paid  his  rent  to  Mr.  Yatman  for  the  last 

month;  yesterday  evening  he  came  home  excited  by  liquor,  and 

last  week  he  was  -ecu  talking  to  a  prize-lighter;  in  short,  though 

Mr.  Jay  does  call  himself  a  journalist,  in  virtue  of  his  penny-a- 

line contributions  to  the  newspapers,  he  is  a  voung  man  of  low 

3,  vulgar  manners,  and  bad  habits.     Nothing  has  yet  been 

discovered  in  relation  to  him  which  redounds  to  his  credit  in  the 

smallest  degree. 

I  have  now  reported,  down  to  the  very  last  detail,  all  the  par- 
ticulars communicated  to  me  by  Sergeant  Bultner. 
you  will  not  find  an  omission  anywhere;  and  I  think  you  will 
admit,  though  you  are  prejudiced  against  me,  that  a  clearer 
rnent  of  facts  was  never  laid  before  you  than  the  statement 
1  have  now  made.  My  next  duty  is  to  tell  you  what  I  propose 
to  do  now  that  the  case  is  confided  to  my  hands. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  clearly  my  business  to  take  up  the  case 
at  the  point  where  Sergeant  Bulmer  has  left  it.  On  his  author- 
ity, I  am  justified  in  assuming  that  I  have  no  need  to  trouble 
myself  about  the  maid-of  -all-  work  and  the  shopman.  Their 
char  re  now  to  be  considered  as  cleared  up.  \Vhat  re- 

mains to  be  privately  investigated  is  the  question  of  the  guilt 
or  innocence  of  Mr.  Jay.  Before  we  give  up  the  notes  for  lost, 
\\  e  must  make  sure,  if  we  can,  that  he  knows  nothing  about 
them. 

This  is  the  plan  that  I  have  adopted,  with  the  full  approval  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman,  for  discovering  whether  Mr.  Jay  is  or  is 
Dot  the  pei  son  who  has  stolen  the  cash-box: 

I  propose  to-day  to  present  m\>elf  at  the  house  in  the  charac- 
ter of  a  young  man  who  is  looking  for  lodgings.  The  back 
on  the  second  floor  will  be  shown  to  me  as  the  room  to  let,  and  I 
shall  establish  myself  there  to-night  as  a  person  from  the 
country  who  has  come  to  London  to  look  for  a  situation  in  a  re- 
spectable shop  or  ofh'ce. 

By  this  means  1  shall  be  Ii\  d  by 

Mr.  Jay.  The  partition  between  u^  is  meiv  lath  and  plaster.  1 
shall  make  a  small  hole  in  it.  near  the  cornice,  through  which  I 

what  Mr  tea  in  bis  room,  and  heai  1  that 

is  said  when  any  friend  happens  to  call  on  him.  Wherever  he 
is  at  home.  I  >hall  lie  ,,i  m  >t  observation;  whenever  he 

goes  out,  I  shall  be  after  him.     By  employing   these   means  of 


150  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

watching  him,  I  believe  I  may  look  forward  to  the  discovery  of 
his  secret — if  he  knows  anything  about  the  lost  bank-notes — as 
to  a  dead  certainty. 

What  you  may  think  of  my  plan  of  observation  I  cannot  un- 
dertake to  say.  It  appears  to  me  to  unite  the  invaluable  merits 
of  boldness  and  simplicity.  Fortified  by  this  conviction,  I  close 
the  present  communication  with  feelings  of  the  most  sanguine 
description  in  regard  to  the  future,  and  remain  your  obedient 
servant,  MATTHEW  SHABPIN. 

FROM  THE  SAME  TO  THE  SAME. 

7th  July. 

Sin, — As  you  have  not  honored  me  with  any  answer  to  my  last 
communication,  I  assume  that,  in  spite  of  your  prejudice  against 
me,  it  has  produced  the  favorable  impression  on  your  mind 
which  I  ventured  to  anticipate.  Gratified  and  encouraged  be- 
yond measure  by  the  token  of  approval  which  your  eloquent 
silence  conveys  to  me,  I  proceed  to  report  the  progress  that  has 
been  made  in  the  course  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours. 

I  am  now  comfortably  established  next  door  to  Mr.  Jay  and  I 
am  delighted  to  say  that  I  have  two  holes  in  the  partition  in- 
stead of  one.  My  natural  sense  of  humor  has  led  me  into  the 
pardonable  extravagance  of  giving  them  both  appropriate  names. 
One  I  call  my  peep-hole,  and  the  other  my  pipe- hole.  The  name 
of  the  first  explains  itself;  tte  name  of  the  second  refers  to  a 
small  tin  pipe  or  tube  inserted  in  the  hole,  and  twisted  so  that 
the  mouth  of  it  comes  close  to  my  ear  while  I  am  standing  at  my 
post  of  observation.  Thus,  while  I  am  looking  at  Mr.  Jay 
through  my  peep-hole,  I  can  hear  every  word  that  may  be  spoken 
in  his  room  through  my  pipe-hole. 

Perfect  candor — a  virtue  which  I  have  possessed  from  my 
childhood — com  pels  me  to  acknowledge,  before  I  go  any  further, 
that  the  ingenious  notion  of  adding  a  pipe-hole  to  my  proposed 
peep-hole  originated  with  Mrs.  Yatman.  This  lady — a  most  in- 
telligent and  accomplished  person,  simple,  and  yet  distinguished 
in  her  manners,  has  entered  into  all  my  little  plans  with  an  en- 
thusiasm and  intelligence  which  I  cannot  too  highly  praise.  Mr. 
Yatman  is  so  cast  down  by  his  loss  that  he  is  quite  incapable  of 
affording  me  any  assistance.  Mrs.  Yatman,  who  is  evidently  most 
tenderly  attached  to  him,  feels  her  husband's  sad  condition  of 
mind  even  more  acutely  than  she  feels  the  loss  of  the  money,  and 
is  mainly  stimulated  to  exertion  by  her  desire  to  assist  him  in  rais- 
ing him  from  the  miserable  state  of  prostration  into  which  he 
has  now  fallen. 

"  The  money.  Mr.  Sharpin,"  she  said  to  me  yesterday  evening, 
with  tears  in  her  eyes,  "  the  money  may  be  regained  by  rigid 
economy  and  strict  attention  to  business.  It  is  my  husband's 
wretched  state  of  mind  that  makes  me  so  anxious  for  the  dis- 
covery of  the  thief.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  felt  hopeful  of  suc- 
cess as  soon  as  you  entered  the  house;  and  I  believe  that,  if  the 
wretch  who  robbed  us  is  to  be  found,  you  are  the  man  to  dis- 
cover him."  I  accepted  this  gratifying  compliment  in  the  spirit 


Til  TS.  151 

in  which  it  was  oil'.  red,  tinnly  believing  ll,  ill  l>e  found, 

sooner  or  later,  t  >  horoughly  deserved  it. 

Let  me  urn  to  business— that  is  to  say,  to  my  peep- 

hole and  my  pipe-h- 

I  have  i'»  hours  of  calm  observation  of  Mr.  Jay. 

Though  :  as  I  understand  from  Mrs.  Yatman.  on 

ordit  as,  he  has  been  in-doors  the  whole  of  this  day. 

That  is  suspicions,  to  begin  with.  I  have  to  report,  further,  that 
hour  this  morning  (always  a  bad  sign  in  a  young 
il  that  he  lost  a  great  deal  of  time,  after  he  was  up, 
nd  complaining  to  himself  of  headache.  Like  other 
debauched  ch^ractejx.  he  ate  little  or  nothing  for  breakfast.  His 
liny;  was  to  smoke  a  pipe — a  dirty  clay  pipe,  which 
a  gentleman  would  have  been  ashamed  to  put  between  his  lips. 
11  he  had  done  smoking  he  took  out  pen,  ink,  and  paper, 
and  sat  down  to  write  with  a  groan — whether  of  remorse  for 
having  taken  the  bank-notes,  or  of  disgust  at  the  task  before 
hirn,  I  am  unable  to  say.  After  writing  a  few  lines  (too  far 
away  from  my  peep-hole  to  give  me  a  chance  of  reading  over 
his  shoulder),  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and  amused  himself 
by  humming  the  tunes  of  popular  songs.  I  recognized  "My 
Mary  Anne,"  "  Bobbin'  Around,"  and  "  Old  Dog  Tray,"  among 
other  melodies.  Whether  these  do  or  do  not  represent  secret 
signals  by  which  he  communicates  with  his  accomplices  remains 
to  be  seen.  After  he  had  amused  himself  for  some  time  by 
humming,  he  got  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room,  occa- 
sionally stopping  to  add  a  sentence  to  the  paper  on  his  desk. 
Before  long  he  went  to  a  locked  cupboard  and  opened  it.  I 
strained  my  eyes  eagerly,  in  expectation  of  making  a  discovery. 
I  saw  him  take  something  carefully  out  of  the  cupboard — he 
turned  round — and  it  was  only  a  pint  bottle  of  brandy!  Having 
drunk  some  of  the  liquor,  this  extremely  indolent  reprobate 
lay  down  on  his  bed  again,  and  in  five  minutes  was  fast 
asleep. 

After  hearing  him  snoring  for  at  least  two  hours,  I  was  recalled 
to  my  peep-hole  by  a  knock  at  his  door.  He  jumped  up  and 
opened  it  with  suspicious  activity. 

A  very  small  boy,  with  a  very  dirty  face,  walked  in,  said, 
"  Please,  sir,  they're  waiting  for  you,"  sat  down  with  his  legs  a 
long  way  from  the  ground,  and  instantly  fell  asleep!  Mr.  Jay 
swore  an  oath,  tied  a  wet  towel  round  his  head,  and,  going  back 
to  his  pa;  an  to  cover  it  with  writing  as  fast  as  his  ti; 

could  move  the  pen.     Occasionally  getting  up  to  dip  the  I 

tier  and  tie  it  on  a-ain.  lie  continued  at  this  employment  for 
nearly  three  hours;  then  folded  up  the  leaves  of  writing,  woke  the 
boy,  and   y;ave  them   to   him,  with  this   remarkable  expression: 
"Now,  then,  young  sleepy-head,  quick  march!     If  you  see  the 
rnor,  tell  him  to  have  the  money  ready  for  me  when  I  call 
for  it."     The  boy  grinned  and  disappeared.     I  was  sorely  tempt- 
ed  to   follow  "  sleepy-head."  but.   on    i  ft,    considered   it 
till  to  keep  my  eye  on  the  proeeeding  of  Mr.  ,1, 

In  half  an  hour's  time  lie  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  out.  Of 
course  I  put  on  my  hat  and  walked  out  also.  As  I  went  down- 


152  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

stairs  I  passed  Mrs.  Yatman  going  up.  The  lady  had  been  kind 
enough  to  undertake,  by  previous  arrangement  between  us,  to 
search  Mr.  Jay's  room  whilo  he  is  out  of  the  way,  and  while  I 
1  am  necessarily  engaged  in  the  pleasing  duty  of  following  him 
wherever  he  goes.  On  the  occasion  to  which  I  now  refer,  he 
walked  straight  to  the  nearest  tavern,  and  ordered  a  couple  of 
mutton-chops  for  his  dinner.  I  placed  myself  in  the  next  box 
to  him,  and  ordered  a  couple  of  mutton-chops  for  my  dinner. 
Before  I  had  been  in  the  room  a  minute,  a  young  man  of  highly 
suspicious  manners  and  appearance,  sitting  at  a  table  opposite, 
took  his  glass  of  porter  in  his  hand  and  joined  Mr.  Jay.  I  pre- 
tended to  be  reading  the  newspaper,  and  listened,  as  in  duty 
bound,  with  all  my  might. 

"  Jack  has  been  here  inquiring  after  you,"  says  the  young 
man. 

"Did  he  leave  any  message?"  asks  Mr.  Jay. 

"Yes,"  says  the  other.  "He  told  me,  if  I  met  with  you,  to 
say  that  he  wished  very  particularly  to  see  you  to-night,  and 
that  he  would  give  you  a  look  in  at  Rutherford  Street  at  seven 
o'clock." 

"  All  right,"  says  Mr.  Jay.    "  I'll  get  back  in  time  to  see  him." 

Upon  this,  the  suspicious-looking  young  man  finished  his  por- 
ter, and  saying  that  he  was  rather  in  a  harry,  took  leave  of  his 
friend  (perhaps  I  should  not  be  wrong  if  I  said  his  accomplice  ?), 
and  left  the  room. 

At  twenty-five  minutes  and  a  half  past  six — in  these  serious 
cases  it  is  important  to  be  particular  about  time — Mr.  Jay  fin- 
ished his  chops  and  paid  his  bill.  At  twenty-six  minutes  and 
three-quarters  I  finished  my  chops  and  paid  mine.  In  ten  min- 
utes more  I  was  inside  the  house  in  Rutherford  Street,  and  was 
received  by  Mrs.  Yatman  in  the  passage.  That  charming 
woman's  face  exhibited  an  expression  of  melancholy  and  disap- 
pointment which  it  quite  grieved  me  to  see. 

"  I  am  afraid,  ma'am,"  says  I, ."  that  you  have  not  hit  on  any 
little  criminating  discovery  in  the  lodger's  room?" 

She  shook  her  head  and  sighed.  It  was  a  soft,  languid,  flut- 
tering sigh — and,  upon  my  life,  it  quite  upset  me.  For  the 
moment  I  forgot  business,  and  burned  with  envy  of  Mr.  Yat- 
man. 

"  Don't  despair,  ma'am,"  I  said,  with  an  insinuating  mildness 
which  seemed  to  touch  her.  "I  have  heard  a  mysterious  con- 
versation— I  know  of  a  guilty  appointment — and  I  expect  great 
things  from  my  peep-hole  and  my  pipe-hole  to-night.  Pray  clpn't 
be  alarmed,  but  I  think  we  are  on  the  brink  of  a  discovery." 

Here  my  enthusiastic  devotion  to  business  got  the  better  part  of 
my  tender  feelings.  I  looked — winked — nodded — left  her. 

When  I  got  back  to  my  observatory,  I  found  Mr.  Jay  digesting 
his  mutton-chops,  in  an  arm-chair,  with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth. 
On  his  table  were  two  tumblers,  a  jug  of  water,  and  the  pint-bot- 
tle of  brandy.  It  was  then  close  upon  seven  o'clock.  As  the  hour 
struck  the  person  described  as  "Jack  "  walked  in. 

He  looked  agitated — I  am  happy  to  say  he  looked  violently 
agitated.  The  cheerful  glow  of  anticipated  success  diffused  it- 


THE    Ql'i  '/•'    I!F..\kTS. 

self  (to  u  so  a  strong  expression)  all  <  from  head   to  foot. 

h  my  p«  'I  saw 

the  v  I  he  '*  Jack*1  of  this  delightful  ca  lo\vn,f; 

it  the  <>:  ide  <>f  tin-  table  to  Mr.  Jay.     Making  allow- 

t'or  the  difference  in   ea  n  which  their  countenances 

•sow  happened  to  exhibit,  t  hose  two  abandoned  villains  were 
iso  much  alike  in  other  respects  as  to  lead  at  once  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  they  were  brothers.     Jack  \v;is  the  cleaner  man  and 
the  better  dressed  of  the  two.     I  admit  that  at  the  outset, 
perhaps,  one  of  my  failures  to  push  justice  and  impartial! 
their  utmost  limits.     I  am  no  Pharisee,  and  where  Vice  h. 

ming  point,  I  say,  let  Vice  have  its  due — yes,  yes,  by  all 
manner  of  means,  let  Vice  have  its  due. 

"What's  the  matter  now.  Jack?"  says  Mr.  Jay. 

m't  you  see  it  in  my  face?"  says  Jack.  "  My  dear  fellow, 
delays  are  dangerous.  Let  us  have  done  with  suspense,  and  risk 
it  the  day  after  to-morrow." 

''So  soon  as  that,'' cries  Mr.  Jay,  looking  very  much  aston- 
ished. "  Well.  I'm  ready,  if  you  are.  But.  I  say.  Jack,  is  some- 
body else  ready  too?  Are  you  quite  sure  of  th. 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke — a  frightful  smile — and  laid  a  very 
strong  emphasis  on  those  two  words,  "  Somebody  else."  There 
is  evidently  a  third  ruffian,  a  nameless  desperado,  concerned  in 
the  business. 

"Meet  us  to-morrow,"  gays  Jack,  "and  judge  for  yourself. 
Be  in  the  Regent's  Park  at  eleven  in  the  morn  in  <r.  and  look  out 
for  us  at  the  turning  that  leads  to  the  Avenue  Road.'' 

il  be  there."  says  Mr.  Jay.  "  Have  a  drop  of  brandy  and 
water?  What  are  vou  getting  up  for?  You're  not  going  al- 
read 

**  Yes,  I  am,"  says  Jack.    "  The  fact  is,  I'm  so  excited  and 

tated  that  I  can't  sit  still  anywhere  for  live  minutes  together. 

Ridiculous  as  it  may  appear  to  you.  I'm  in  a  perpetual  state  of 

>us  flutter.     I  can't,  for  the  life  of  me,  help  fearing  that  we 

shall  be  found  out.     I  fancy  that  every  man  who  looks  twice  at 

me  in  the  street  is  a  spy '' 

At  th»se  words  I  thought  my  legs  would  have  given  way  under 
me.  Nothing  but  strength  of  mind  kept  me  at  my  peep-hole — 
nothing  else,  I  give  you  my  word  of  honor. 

-tuff  and  nonsense!"  cries  Mr.  Jay,  with  all  the  effront*  ry 
of  a  veteran  in  crime.     "We  have  kept  the  secret  up  to  this 

and   we  will  manage  cleverly  to  the  end.     Have  a 
of  brandy  and   water,  and  vou  will  feel  as  certain  aUuit  it  as 
1  d< 
Jack  steadily  refused  the  brandy  and  water,  and  stead  il\ 

"d  in  taking  his  l.-ave. 

"  I  must  try  if  I  can't  walk  it  off,"  he  said.     "  Remember 
morrow  morning — eleven  o'clock,  Avenue  Ro:  the 

Regent's  Park." 

With  those,  words  he  went  out.     Hi-h;  i\»- hm 

iierately  and  resumed  the  dirty  day  pipe. 

I  sat  down  on  the  side  of  my  bed,  actually  quivering  with  ex- 
citement. 


154  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

It  is  clear  to  me  that  no  attempt  has  yet  been  made  to  change 
the  stolen  bank-notes,  and  I  may  add  that  Sergeant  Bulmer  was 
of  that  opinion  also  when  he  left  the  case  in  my  hands.  What 
is  the  natural  conclusion  to  draw  from  the  conversation  which 
J  have  just  set  down.  Evidently  that  the  confederates  meet  to- 
morrow to  take  their  respective  shares  in  the  stolen  money,  and 
to  decide  on  the  safest  means  of  getting  the  notes  changed  the 
day  after.  Mr.  Jay  is,  beyond  a  doubt,  the  leading  criminal  in 
this  business,  and  he  will  probably  run  the  chief  risk — that  of 
changing  the  fifty-pound  note.  I  shall,  therefore,  still  make  it 
my  business  to  follow  him — attending  at  the  Regent's  Park  to- 
morrow, and  doing  my  best  to  hear  what  is  said  there.  If  an- 
other appointment  is  made  for  the  day  after,  I  shall,  of  course, 
go  to  it.  In  the  meantime,  I  shall  want  the  immediate  assistance 
of  two  competent  persons  (supposing  the  rascals  separate  after 
their  meeting)  to  follow  the  two  minor  criminals.  It  is  only 
fair  to  add  that,  if  the  rogues  all  retire  together,  I  shall  probably 
keep  my  subordinates  in  reserve.  Being  naturally  ambitious,  I 
desire,  if  possible,  to  have  the  whole  credit  of  discovering  this 
robbery  to  myself. 

8th  July. 

I  have  to  acknowledge,  with  thanks,  the  speedy  arrival  of  my 
two  subordinates — men  of  very  average  abilities,  I  am  afraid; 
but,  fortunately,  I  shall  always  be  on  the  spot  to  direct  them. 

My  first  business  this  morning  was  necessarily  to  prevent  pos- 
sible mistakes  by  accounting  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman  for  the 
presence  of  two  strangers  on  the  scene.  Mr.  Yatman  (between 
ourselves  a  poor  feeble  man)  only  shook  his  head  and  groaned. 
Mrs.  Yatman  (that  superior  woman)  favored  me  with  a  charming 
look  of  intelligence. 

"  Oh.  Mr.  SharpinP'she  said,  "I  am  so  sorry  to  see  those  two 
men !  Your  sending  for  their  assistance  looks  as  if  you  were 
beginning  to  be  doubtful  of  success." 

I  privately  winked  at  her  (she  is  very  good  in  allowing  me  to 
do  so  without  taking  offense),  and  told  her,  in  my  facetious  way, 
that  she  labored  under  a  slight  mistake. 

"It  is  because  I  am  sure  of  success,  ma'am,  that  I  send  for 
them.  I  am  determined  to  recover  the  money,  not  for  my  own 
sake  only,  but  for  Mr.  Yatman's  sake — and  for  yours." 

I  laid  a  considerable  amount  of  stress  on  those  last  three  words. 
She  said,  "  Oh,  Mr.  Sharpin!"  again,  and  blushed  of  a  heavenly 
red,  and  looked  down  at  her  work.  I  could  go  to  the  world's 
end  with  that  woman  if  Mr.  Yatman  would  only  die. 

I  sent  off  the  two  subordinates  to  wait  until  I  wanted  them  at 
the  Avenue  Road  gate  of  the  Regent's  Park.  Half  an  hour  after- 
ward I  was  following  the  same  direction  myself  at  the  heels  of 
Mr.  Jay. 

The  two  confederates  were  punctual  to  the  appointed  time.  I 
blush  to  record  it,  but  it  is  nevertheless  necessary  to  state  that 
the  third  rogue — the  nameless  desperado  of  my  report,  or,  if  you 
prefer  it,  the  mysterious  "  somebody  else"  of  the  conversation 
between  the  two  brothers — is — a  woman!  and,  what  is  worse,  a 
young  woman!  and,  what  is  more  lamentable  still,  a  nice  look- 


'VI  IF,     (t)l'i 

\omnn!     I   liavo  long  resisted  a  growing  conviction   that, 

IB   mischief  in   this  world,  an   individual  of  the 

t-x  is  inevitably  certain  to  be  mixed  up  in  it.     After  the  ex- 

i  norning,  I  can  struggle  against  tl  con- 

nger.     I  give  up  the  sex — excepting  Mrs.  Yatman, 

I  give  up  the  sex. 

The  man  named  "Jack"  offered  the  woman  his  arm.     Mr. 
•fd  himself  on  the  other  side  of  her.     The  three  then 
walk  slowly  among  the  trees.    I  followed  them  at 

i nee.     My  two  subordinates,  at  a  respectful  distance 
also,  followed  me. 

It  was,  I  deeply  regret  to  say,  impossible  to  get  near  enough 
to  them  to   overhear  their  conversation  without  running 

i  a  risk  of  being  discovered.    I  could  only  infer  from  their 
mil  actions  that  they  were  all  three  talking  with  extra- 
ordinary earnestness  on  some  subject  which  deeply   inter 
them.     After  having  been  engaged  in  this  way  a  full  quarter  of 
an  hour,  they  suddenly  turned  round  to  retrace  their  steps.     My 
of  mind  did  not  forsake  me  in  this  emergency.    I  signed 
to  tne  two  subordinates  to  walk  ou  carelessly  and  pass  them, 
while  I  myself  slipped  dexterously  behind  a  tree.     As  they  came 

e,  I  heard  "  Jack  v  address  these  words  to  Mr.  Jay: 
••  Let  us  say  half  past  ten  to-morrow  morning.     And  mind  you 
come  in  a  cab.     We  had  better  not  risk  taking  one  in  this  neigh- 
borhood.'' 

Mr.  Jay  made  some  brief  reply  which  I  could  not  overhear. 
walked  back  to  the  place  at  which  they  had  met,  shaking 
hands  there  with  an  audacious  cordiality  which  it  quite  sickened 
o  see.     They  then  separated.     I  followed  Mr.  Jay.     My  sub- 
ordinates paid  the  same  delicate  attention  to  the  other  two. 

Instead  of  taking  me  back  to  Rutherford  Street,  Mr.  Jay  led 
me  to  the  Strand.     lit1  stopped  at  a  dingy,  disreputable-looking 

.  which,  according  to  the  inscription  over  the  door,  A\ 
new^pap-r  olHce,  but  which,  in  my  judgment,  had  all  the  ex- 
ternal appearance  of  a  place  devoted  to  the  reception  of  stolen 
goods. 

After  remaining  inside  for  a  few  minutes,  he  came  out  whis- 
tling, with  his  linger  and  thumb  in  his  waistcoat  pocket.     Some 
men  would  now  have  anested  him  on  the  spot.     I  remembered 
the  necessity  of  catching  the  two  confederates,  and  the  impor- 
of  not  ini  £  with  the  appointment  that  had  been 

made  f«.-r  the  next  morning.  Such  coolness  as  this,  under  trying 
ciirumstances,  is  rarely  to  be  found,  I  should  imagine,  in  a 
yomi  tier,  whose  reputation  as  a  detective  policeman  is 

still  to  mal. 

From  the  house  of  suspicious  appearance  Mr.  Jay  betook  him- 
self to  a  cigar-divan,  and   read  the  maga/  <>root. 
i   the  divan  he  strolled  to  the  tavern  and  had  his  chops.     I 
strolled  to  the  tavern  and  had  my  chop-.      When  he   had 
he  went  back  to  his  lodging.     When  I  had  done  I  went  back  to 
mine.     I                                     ith  drowsin-                  in  the  evening, 
and  went  to  bed.     As  soon  as  I  heard  him  snoring,  I  was  over- 
wit  h  drowsiness  and  went  to  bed  also. 


156  THE    QUEKN    OF    HEARTS. 

Early  in  the  morning  my  two  subordinates  came  to  make 
their  report. 

They  had  seen  the  man  named  "  Jack  "  leave  the  woman  at 
the  gate  of  an  apparently  respectable  villa  residence  not  far  from 
the  Regent's  Park.  Left  to  himself,  he  took  a  turning  to  the 
right,  which  led  to  a  sort  of  suburban  street,  principally  inhab- 
ited by  shopkeepers.  He  stopped  at  the  private  door  of  one  of 
the  houses,  and  let  himself  in  with  his  own  key — looking  about 
him  as  he  opened  the  door,  and  staring  suspiciously  at  my  men 
as  they  lounged  along  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  These 
were  all  the  particulars  which  the  subordinates  had  to  commu- 
nicate. 1  kept  them  in  my  room  to  attend  on  me,  if  needful, 
and  mounted  to  my  peep-hole  to  have  a  look  at  Mr.  Jay. 

He  was  occupied  in  dressing  himself,  and  was  taking  extraor- 
dinary pains  to  destroy  all  traces  of  the  natural  slovenliness  of 
his  appearance.  This  was  precisely  what  I  expected.  A  vaga- 
bond like  Mr.  Jay  knows  the  importance  of  giving  himself  a  re- 
spectable look  when  he  is  going  to  run  the  risk  of  changing  a 
stolen  bank-note.  At  five  minutes  past  ten  o'clock  he  had  given 
the  last  brush  to  his  shabby  hat  and  the  last  scouring  with  bread- 
crumb to  his  dirty  gloves.  At  ten  minutes  past  ten  he  was  in  the 
street,  on  his  way  to  the  nearest  cab-stand,  and  I  and  my  subor- 
dinates were  close  on  his  heels. 

He  took  a  cab,  and  we  took  a  cab.  I  had  not  overheard  them 
appoint  a  place  of  meeting  when  following  them  in  the  Park  on 
the  previous  day,  but  I  soon  found  that  we  were  proceeding  in 
the  old  direction  of  the  Avenue  Road  gate.  The  cab  in  which 
Mr.  Jay  was  riding  turned  intfo  the  Park  slowly.  We  stopped 
outside,  to  avoid  exciting  suspicion.  I  got  out  to  follow  the  cab 
on  foot.  Just  as  I  did  so,  I  saw  it  stop,  and  detected  the  two 
confederates  approaching  it  from  among  the  trees.  They  got  in, 
and  the  cab  was  turned  about  directly.  I  ran  back  to  my  own 
cab,  and  told  the  driver  to  let  them  pass  him,  and  then  to  follow 
as  before. 

The  man  obeyed  my  directions,  but  so  clumsily  as  to  excite 
their  suspicions.  We  had  been  driving  after  them  about  three 
minutes  (returning  along  the  road  by  which  we  had  advanced) 
when  I  looked  out  of  the  window  to  see  how  far  they  might  be 
ahead  of  us.  As  I  did  this,  I  saw  two  hats  popped  out  of  the 
windows  of  their  cab,  and  two  faces  looking  back  at  me.  I  sank 
into  my  place  in  a  cold  sweat;  the  expression  is  coarse,  but  no 
other  form  of  words  can  describe  my  condition  at  that  trying 
moment. 

"We  are  found  out!"  I  said,  faintly,  to  my  two  subordinates. 
They  stared  at  me  in  astonishment.  My  feelings  instantly 
changed  from  the  depth  of  despair  to  the  height  of  indignation. 

"It  is  the  cabman's  fault.  Get  out,  one  of  you,"  T  said,  with 
dignity — "  get  out,  and  punch  his  head." 

Instead  of  following  my  directions  (I  should  wish  this  act  of 
disobedience  to  be  reported  at  head -quarters)  they  both  looked  out 
of  the  window.  Before  I  could  pull  them  back  they  both  sat 
down  again.  Before  I  could  express  my  just  indignation,  they 
both  grinned,  and  said  to  me,  "Please  to  look  out,  sir!" 


Til  V    OF    HEARTS. 

I  did  look  out.    Their  cab  had  stopped. 
\Vh. 

At  a  church  door! 

Wl  scovery  might  have  had  upon  the  ordinary 

run  of  men  I  don't  kn<>\v.  Being  of  a  strong  religious  turn  my- 
self, it  filicd  me  with  horror.  I  have  often  read  of  the  unprin- 
cipled cin.nin^  of  criminal  persons,  but  I  never  before  heard  of 
three  thieves  attempting  to  double  on  their  pursuers  by  entering 
a  church!  The  sacrilegious  audacity  of  tbat  proceeding 
should  think,  unparalleled  in  the  annals  of  crime. 

I   eheeki-I   my   grinning  subordinates  by  a  frown.      It   was 

hat  was  passing  in  their  superficial  minds.     If  I  had 

able  to  look  below  the  surface,  I  might,  on  observing 

•d  men  and  one  nicely- dressed  woman  enter  a 

church  before  eleven  in  the  morning  on  a  week  day,  have  come 

to  the  same  hasty  conclusion  at  which  my  inferiors  had 

dently  arrived.     As  it  was,  appearances  had  no  power  to  impose 

on  inc.     I  got  out.  and,  followed  by  one  of  my  men,  entered  the 

church.     The  other  man  I  sent  round  to  watch  the  vestry  door. 

You  ma\  i  weasel  asleep,  but  not  your  humble  servant, 

Matthew  Sharpjn. 

We  stole  up  the  gallerv  stairs,  diverged  to  the  organ-loft,  and 
rjeered  through  the  curtains  in  front.  There  they  were,  all  three, 
sitting  in  a  pew  below — yes,  incredible  as  it  may  appear,  sitting 
in  a  pew  below. 

Before  I  could  determine  what  to  do,  a  clergyman  made  his 

i  ranee  in  full  canonicals  from  the  vestry  door,  followed  by 

i  k.     My  brain  whirled  and  my  eyesight  grew  dim.     Dark 

remembrances  of  robberies  committed  in  vestries  floated  through 

my  mind.     I  trembled  for  the  excellent  man  in  full  canonicals — 

I  even  trembled  for  the  clerk. 

The  clergyman  placed  himself  inside  the  altar  rails.  The 
three  desperadoes  approached  him.  He  opened  his  book,  and 
began  to  read.  What  ?  you  will  ask. 

1  answer,  without  the  slightest  hesitation,  the  first  lines  of  the 
Marriage  Service. 

My  subordinate  had  the  audacity  to  look  at  me,  and  then  to 
stuff  his  pocket-handkerchief  into  his  mouth.     I  scorned  to  pay 
any   attention   to  him.     After  I  had   discovered  that  the  mail 
was  the  bridegroom,  and  that  the.  man  J?iy  acted  the 
ither.  and  gave  a  way  the  bride.     1  left  the  church,  fol- 
1  by  my  men,  and  joined  the  other  subordinate  out-i«: 
v  door.     Some  people  in  my  position  would  now  ha\< 
rath'  illen.  and  would  have  l>egun  to  think  that 

foolish  mistake.     Not  the  faint' 

kind  trouMed  me.      I  did   not  feel  in   the  >iiuhtt  st  de^r. 
'1  in    my   own   estimation.      And  e\ 

mv  mind   remains.  I  am   happy  to  say,  in  the  same 
calm  and  hopeful  condition. 

it   as  I  and   my   sul>onlinat'  ther 

Outside  the  church,  1   intimated   my  intention  of  still   following 
the  other  cal>  in  spite  of  \\  hat    li. 
riding  ou  this  course  will   appear  pi 


^58  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

nates  appeared  to  be  astonished  at  my  resolution/  One  of  them 
had  the  impertinence  to  say  to  mo: 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  who  is  it  that  we  are  after  ?  A  man  who 
has  stolen  money,  or  a  man  who  has  stolen  a  wife?" 

The  other  low  person  encouraged  him  by  laughing.  Both  have 
deserved  an  official  reprimand,  and  both,  I  sincerely  trust,  will 
be  sure  to  get  it. 

When  the  marriage  ceremony  was  over,  the  three  got  into 
their  cab,  and  once  more  our  vehicle  (neatly  hidden  round  the 
corner  of  the  church,  so  that  they  could  not  suspect  it  to  be  near 
them)  started  to  follow  theirs. 

We  traced  them  to  the  terminus  of  the  Southwestern  Railway. 
The  newly-married  couple  took  tickets  for  Richmond,  paying 
their  fare  with  a  half-sovereign,  and  so  depriving  me  of  the 
pleasure  of  arresting  them,  which  I  should  certainly  have  done 
if  they  had  offered  a  bank-note.  They  parted  from  Mr.  Jay, 
saying,  <;  Remember  the  address — 14  Babylon  Terrace.  You 
dine  with  us  to-morrow  week."  Mr.  Jay  accepted  the  invita- 
tion, and  added,  jocosely,  that  he  was  going  home  at  once  to  get 
off  his  clean  clothes,  and  to  be  comfortable  and  dirty  again  for 
the  rest  of  the  day.  I  have  to  report  that  I  saw  him  home  safely, 
and  that  he  is  comfortable  and  dirty  again  (to  use  his  own  dis- 
graceful language)  at  the  present  moment. 

Here  the  affair  rests,  having  by  this  time  reached  what  I  may 
call  its  first  stage. 

I  know  very  well  what  persons  of  hasty  judgment  will  be 
inclined  to  sa}7  of  my  proceedings  tbus  far.  They  will  assert 
that  1  have  been  deceiving  myself  all  through  in  the  most  ab- 
surd way;  they  will  declare  that  the  suspicious  conversations 
which  I  have  reported  referred  solely  to  the  difficulties  and 
dangers  of  successfully  carrying  out  a  runaway  match;  and 
they  will  appeal  to  the  scene  in  the  church  as  offering  undeniable 
proof  of  the  correctness  of  their  assertions.  So  let  it  be.  I 
dispute  nothing  up  to  this  point.  But  I  ask  a  question,  out 
of  the  depths  of  my  own  sagacity  as  a  man  of  the  world, 
which  the  bitterest  of  my  enemies  will  not,  I  think,  find  it 
particularly  easy  to  answer. 

Granted  the  fact  of  the  marriage,  what  proof  does  it  afford 
me  of  the  innocence  of  the  three  persons  concerned  in  that 
clandestine  "transaction?  It  gives  me  none.  On  the  contrary, 
it  strengthens  my  suspicions  against  Mr.  Jay  and  his  confeder- 
ates, because  it  suggests  a  distinct  motive  for  their  stealing  the 
money.  A  gentleman  who  is  going  to  spend  his  honeymoon  at 
Richmond  wyants  money;  and  a  gentleman  who  is  in  debt  to 
all  his  tradespeople  wants  money.  Is  this  an  im  justifiable  im- 
putation of  bad  motives  ?  In  the  name  of  outraged  Morality,  I 
deny  it.  These  men  have  combined  together,  and  have  stolen  a 
woman.  Why  should  they  not  combine  together  and  steal  a 
cash-box  ?  I  take  my  stand  on  the  logic  of  rigid  Virtue,  and  I 
<ici  v  all  the  sophistry  of  Vice  to  move  me  an  inch  out  of  my 
position. 

Speaking  of  virtue,  I  may  add  that  1  have  put  this  view  of 
the  case  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman.  That  accomplished  and  charm- 


777  159 

ing  woman  found  it  difficult  follow  t 

I  an;  that  shf 

shed  iaii'1   in   pi- 

<>unds.     Bu!   a  litt!< 

explanation   on   my  p  rt.  am!  a  In  tie  at  enti 
ultimately  c!  :iion.     She  now  agrees  with  rn« 

thrrc  is  nothing  in  this  unexpected  circums!  the  da: 

tine   mar  liich   al)solutely  tends  to  divert  SB 

Mr.    Jay,   or   Mr.  "Jack."  or  the  runaway  lady.     ••  .  \udacious 
the  term   my  fair  friend  used  in  speaking  of  her; 
.ft  that  pass.     It  is  more  to  the  purpose  to  record  ; 
ian  has  not  lost  'confidence  in  me,  and  that   Mr.    Yatman 
promises  to  follow  her  example,  and  do  his  best  to  look  hope- 
fully for  future  results. 

1  have  now,  in  the  new  turn  that  circumstances  have  taken. 
to  await  advice  from  your  office.  I  pause  for  fresh  orders  with 
all  the  composure  of  a  man  who  has  got  two  string.-  to  his  bow. 
When  I  traced  the  three  confederates  from  the  church  door  to 
the  railway  terminus,  I  had  two  motives  fordoing  so.  Fii 
followed  them  as  a  matter  of  official  bu.-<  iieving  them 

still  to  have  been  guilty  of  the  robbery.     Secondly,  I  foil- 
them  as  a  matter  of  private  speculation,  with  a  view  of  disc 
ing  the  place  of  refuge  to  which  the  runaway  couple  intend'-.! 
it,  and   of  making  my  information  a  marketable  com- 
modity to  offer  to  the  young  lady's  family  and  friends.    Thus. 
whatever  happens,  I  may  congratulate  myself  beforehand  on  not 
having  wa-ted  my  time.     If  the  office  approves  of  my  conduct. 
1    have    my    plan    ready   for  further  proceedings.     If  the  otlice 
Mann  s  me,  I  shall  take  myseli'  off,  with  my  marketable  informa- 
tion. to  the  genteel  villa  residence  m  the  neighborhood  of  the 

Park.     Anyway,  the  affair  puts  money  into  m\ 
and  does  credit  to  my   penetration    as  an  uncommonly   sharp 
man. 

L  have  only  one  more  word  to  add,  and  it  is  this:   If  any  indi- 
vidual ventures  ;  ;    that   Mr.  Jay  and  his  con  fed, 

of  all  share  in  the  stealing  of  the  cash-box.  I.  in  return. 
defy  that  individual  —  though  he  may  even    be   Thief   Insp 

ne  himself  —  to  tell  me  who  lias  committed  the  robbery 
utherford  street,  Solio. 

in  that  conviction,  I  have  the  honor  to  be  your 
obedient  servant,  MATTHEW  SHARP 

FROM  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE  'I  R. 


BlRMIN(JH  v 

:GEANT  BULMER.—  That  em:  led  pup;  Matthew 

Sharpin.  has  made  a  mess  of  tlu  ;  Knth< 

!  Iv  as  1  ,  i  lu'  would.  Business  keeps  m-  in  this  town. 

lie  matter  straight.  1  inclose  with  this 
the  pages  of  feeble  scribble-scrabble  which  i  tun--  Sh 

a  report.     Look  them  over:  and  \\ 

through  all  the  gabble,  I  think  you  will  agree  with  m< 

but  the  right  one.  "  You  can  lay  your  hand  on  the  guill 


160  THE    QUEEN   OF    HEARTS. 

in  five  minutes,  now.  Settle  the  case  at  once;  forward  your  re- 
port to  me  at  this  place,  and  tell  Mr.  Sharpin  that  he  is  sus- 
pended till  further  notice. 

Yours,  FRANCIS  THEAKSTONE. 

FROM  SERGEANT  BULMER  TO  CHIEF  INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE. 

LONDON,  July  10th. 

INSPECTOR  THEAKSTONE, — Your  letter  and  inclosure  came  safe 
to  hand.  Wise  men,  they  say,  may  always  learn  something 
even  from  a  fool.  By  the  time  I  had  got  through  Sharpin's 
maundering  report,  of  his  own  folly,  I  saw  my  way  clear  enough 
to  the  end  of  the  Rutherford  Street  case,  just  as  you  thought  I 
should.  In  half  an  hour's  time  I  wsis  at  the  house.  The  first 
person  I  saw  there  was  Mr.  Sharpin  himself. 

"  Have  you  come  to  help  me  ?"  says  he. 

"  Not  exactly,"  says  I.  "  I've  come  to  tell  you  that  you  are 
suspended  till  further  notice." 

"  Very  good,"  says  he,  not  taken  down  by  so  much  as  a  single 
peg  in  his  own  estimation.  "  I  thought  you  would  be  jealous  of 
me.  It's  very  natural;  and  I  don't  blame  you.  Walk  in,  prav, 
and  make  yourself  at  home.  I'm  off  to  do  a  little  detective  busi- 
ness on  my  own  account,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Regent's 
Park.  Ta-ta,  sergeant,  ta-ta!" 

With  those  words  he  took  himself  out  of  the  way,  which  was 
exactly  what  I  wanted  him  to  do. 

As  soon  as  the  maid  -servant  had  shut  the  door,  I  told  her  to 
inform  her  master  that  I  wanted  to  say  a  word  to  him  in  private. 
She  showed  me  into  the  parlor  behind  the  shop,  and  there  was 
Mr.  Yatman  all  alone,  reading  the  newspaper. 

"  About  this  matter  of  the  robbery,  sir,"  says  I. 

He  cut  me  short,  peevishly  enough,  being  naturally  a  poor, 
weak,  womanish  sort  of  man.  "Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  says  he. 
"You  have  come  to  tell  me  that  your  wonderfully  clever  man, 
who  has  bored  holes  in  my  second-floor  partition,  has  made  a 
mistake,  and  is  off  the  scent  of  the  scoundrel  who  has  stolen  my 
money." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  says  I.  "  That  is  one  of  the  things  I  came  to  tell 
you.  But  1  have  got  something  else  to  say  besides  that." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  who  the  thief  is  ?"  says  he,  more  pettish  than 
ever. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  says  I,  "  I  think  I  can." 

He  put  down  the  newspaper,  and  began  to  look  rather  anxious 
and  frightened. 

"  Not  my  shopman?"  says  he.  "I  hope,  for  the  man's  own 
sake,  it  is  not  my  shopman." 

"  Guess  again,  sir,"  says  I. 

"That  idle  slut,  the  maid?"  says  he. 

"  She  is  idle,  sir,"  saye  I,  "  and  she  is  also  a  slut;  my  first  in- 
quiries about  her  proved  as  much  as  that.  But  she's  not  the 
thief." 

"  Then,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  who  is?"  says  he. 

"  Will  you  please  to  prepare  yourself  for'a  very  disagreeable  sur- 
prise, sir?"  says  I.  "And,  in  case  you  lose  your  temper,  will 


KEN    OF  161 

irking  tliat  I  am   the  stronger  man  of  the, 

unintentionally  liurt  you,  in  pure  self-def<  i 

iimied  and  pushed  his  chair  two  QI  tl 

"You   have  asked  me  to  tell  r.  who  has  taken,  your 

money,"  I  went  on.     "If  you  insist  on  my  giving  yon  an  an- 

" 

•i i«l,  faintly.     "  Who  has  taken  it?" 

»iir  wife  has  taken  it."  I  said,  very  quietly,  and  very  posi* 
tively  at  the  same  time. 

jumped  out  of  the  chair  as  if  I  had  put  a  knife  into  him, 
and  struck  his  fist  on  the  table  so  heavily  that  the  wood  cracked 
:n. 

ir,"  says  I.     "  Flying  into  a  passion  won't  help  you 
to  the  truth.'1 

'•It's  a  lie!"  says  he.  with  another  smack  of  his  fist  on  the 

table — "a  base,  vile,  infamous  lie!     How  dare  you " 

He  stopped,  and  fell  back  into  the  chair  again,  looked  about 
him  in  a  bewildered  way,  and  ended  by  bursting  out  crying. 

"^  r  sense  comes  back  to  you,  sir,"  says  I,   "I 

am  sure  you  will  be  gentleman  enough  to  make  an  apology  for 
the  lan.mia.ue  you  have  just  used.     In  the  meantime,  ; 

i,  it  you  can.   to  a  word  of  explanation.     Mr.  Sharpin   has 
sent  in  a  report  to  our  inspector  of  the  most  irregular  and  ridicu- 
lous kind,  setting  down  not  only  all  his  own  foolish  doings  and 
sayings,  hut  thedoiugs  nnd  sayings  of  Mrs.  Yatrnau  as  well.     In 
es,  sucli  a  document  would  have  been  fit  only  for  the 
basket:  but  in  this  particular  case  it  so  happens  that 
Mr.  Sharpin's  budget  of  nonsense  leads  to  a  certain  conch; 
which  the  simpleton  of  a  writer  has  been  quite  innocent  ol 

ng  from  the  beginning  to  the  end.    Of  that  conclusion  I  am 
so  sure  that  I  will  forfeit  my  place  if  it  does  Liot  turn  out    that 
Mrs.  Yatman  ha-  been   practicing  upon  the  folly  and  conceit  <>f 
this  young  man,  and   that  she  has  tried  to  shield   herself  from 
very  by  purpo-eh    encouraging  him  to  suspect  the  wrong 
as.    I  tfll  you  that  confidentially;  and  I  will  even  go  further. 
I  will  undertake  to  give  a  decided   opinion  as  to  why  Mrs.  Yat- 
man took  the  money,  and  what    she  has  done   with  it,  or  with  a 
\'obody  can   look  at  that  lady,   sir,  without  being 

struck  by  tin-  great  taste  and  beauty  of  her  dress " 

Aj9  X  said  those  last  words,   the  p<-or  man  seemed  to  find   his 
,in.     He  cut  me  short   directly  as  haughtily 
as  it'  he  had  been  a  duke  instead  of  a  stationer. 

"Try  some    other    means  of   justifying   your  vile  calumny 
against   my  wit'.  he,      "  Her   mi!  nill   for  the  past 

is  on  my  tile  of  receipted  account-  at  this  moment.'' 

-e  me,  sir,''  sa;.  s  I,  "  but  that  proves  nothing.  Milliners, 

I   must    tell    you.  have  a   certain   rascally  custom   which   comes 

within  the  daily  experi.  !)••-•  of  our  ol  -  d   lady  who 

wishes  i(   e;m  keep  tw..  ftCCOUnti   at    :  IS  the 

iint  which  her  husband  >ees  and  pa  the  pri- 

account,    \\hich   contains  all  the  extravagant   items,  and 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS, 

which  the  wife  pays  secretly,  by  installments,  whenever  she  can. 
According  to  our  usual  experience,  these  installments  are  mostly 
squeezed  out  of  the  housekeeping  money.  In  your  case,  I  sus- 
pect, no  installments  have  been  paid;  proceedings  have  been 
threatened;  Mrs.  Yatman,  knowing  your  altered  circumstances, 
has  felt  herself  driven  into  a  corner,  and  she  has  paid  her  private 
account  out  of  your  cash-box." 

"  I  won't  believe  it,"  says  he.  "  Every  word  you  speak  is  an 
abominable  insult  to  me  and  to  my  wife." 

"  Are  you  man  enough,  sir,''  says  I,  taking  him  up  short,  in 
order  to  save  time  and  words,  "to  get  that  receipted  bill  you 
spoke  of  just  now  off  the  file,  and  come  with  me  at  once  to  the 
milliner's  shop  where  Mrs.  Yatman  deals?" 

He  turned  red  in  the  face  at  that,  got  the  bill  directly,  and 
put  on  his  hat.  I  took  out  of  my  pocket-book  the  list  containing 
the  numbers  of  the  lost  notes,  and  we  left  the  house  together 
immediately. 

Arrived  at  the  milliner's  (one  of  the  expensive  West- end  houses, 
as  I  expected),  I  asked  for  a  private  interview,  on  important 
business,  with  the  mistress  of  the  concern.  It  was  not  the  first 
time  that  she  and  I  had  met  over  the  same  delicate  investigation. 
The  moment  she  set  eyes  on  me  she  sent  for  her  husband.  I 
mentioned  who  Mr.  Yatman  was,  and  what  we  wanted. 

"This  is  strictly  private?"  inquires  the  husband.  I  nodded 
my  head. 

"  And  confidential?"  says  the  wife.    I  nodded  again. 

"Do  you  you  see  any  objection,  dear,  to  obliging  the  sergeant 
with  a  sight  of  the  books?"  says  the  husband. 

"None  in  the  world,  love,  if  you  approve  of  it,"  says  the  wife. 

All  this  while  poor  Mr.  Yatman  sat  looking  the  picture  of  as- 
tonishment and  distress,  quite  out  of  place  at  our  polite  confer- 
ence. The  books  were  brought,  and  one  minute's  look  at  the 
pages  in  which  Mrs.  Yatman's  name  figured  was  enough,  and 
more  than  enough,  to  prove  the  truth  of  every  word  that  I  had 
spoken. 

There,  in  one  book,  was  the  husband's  account  which  Mr.  Yat- 
man had  settled;  and  there,  in  the  other,  was  the  private  ac- 
count, crossed  off  also,  the  date  of  settlement  being  the  very  day 
after  the  loss  of  the  cash-box.  This  said  private  account 
amounted  to  the  sum  of  a  hundred  and  seventy-five  pounds,  odd 
shillings,  and  it  extended  over  a  period  of  three  years.  Not  a 
single  installment  had  been  paid  on  it;.  Under  the  last  line  was 
an  entry  to  this  effect:  "  Written  to  for  the  third  time,  June 
23d."  I  pointed  to  it,  and  asked  the  milliner  if  that  meant  "  last 
June."  Yes,  it  did  mean  last  June;  and  she  now  deeply  regretted 
to  say  that  it  had  been  accompanied  by  a  threat  of  legal  proceed- 
ings. 

"  I  thought  you  gave  good  customers  more  than  three  years' 
credit?"  says  I. 

"The  milliner  looks  at  Mr.  Yatman,  and  whispers  to  me, 
"  Not  when  a  lady's  husband  gets  into  difficulties." 

She  pointed  to  the  account  as  she  spoke.  The  entries  after 
the  time  when  Mr,  Yatman's  circumstances  became  involved 


77'  103 

on  in  li i  iation,  as 

the  entries  for  flic  year  before  tlint  period.     If   (lie  lady  hadeCOn- 

oniiy.  irrthin  tainly  not  economized  in  the 

Th<  nothing:  loft  now  hut  to  examine  (1,  >ook,  for 

Tlic  money  had   been  paid    in   notes  tin- 
and  numbers  of  win  •  ly  tallied  with  tin-  figures  set  <! 

in  my  ' 

er  that.  T   thought  it   best  to  get  Mr.  Yatman  out  of  the 
i-itely.     He  was  in  such  a  pitiable  condition  that  I 

•d  him  liome  in  it.     At  first 

and  raved  like  a  child:  hut  I  soon  quieted  him;  and  I  must  add, 
thut  he  made  me  a  most  handsome  ai><  >r  his 

language  as  the  cab  dre\v  up  at  his  house  door.     In  return  1  tried 
in  some  advice  about  how  to  set  matters  right  for   the 
future  with  his  wife,     lie  paid  very  little  attention  to  me,  and 
rs  muttering  to  himself  about  a  separation.  Wheth- 
er M;-  iau  will   come  cleverly -out   of  the  scrape  or  not 
iibtt'ul.     I  should  say  myself  that  she  would   go  into 
•hin<;-  h  .  and  so  frighten  the  poor  man  into  forgiv- 
ing her.     But  this  is  no  business  of  ours.    So  far  as  we  are  con- 
d.  the  case  is  no\v  at  an  end,  and   the  present  report  may 
•  '  to  a  conclusion  alon<^  with  it. 

I  remain,  accordingly,  yours  to  command, 

THOMAS  BULMER. 

P.  S. — I  have  to  add  that,  on  leaving  Rutherford  Street,  I  met 
Mr.  Matthew  Sharpin  coming  to  pack  up  his  things. 

"Only  think."  says  he,  rubbing  his  hands  in  great  spirits, 
••  I  ye  been  to  the  genteel  villa  residence,  and  the  moment  I  men- 
tioned my  business  they  kicked  me  out  directly.  There  were 
two  witnesses  of  the  assault,  and  it's  worth  a  hundred  pounds 
3  worth  a  farthii 

"  I  wish  you  joy  of  your  hick."  say>  I. 

"  Thank  you. "says  he.  ••  When  may  I  pay  you  the  same  com- 
plinn  nt  on  finding  the  thief?'' 

>%  \Vhen  I.  "for  the  thief  is  found." 

"Just  what  t expected,"  says  he.  "I've  done  all  the  work, 
and  now  you  cut  in  and  claim  all  the  credit — Mr.  Ja\ 

-;  I. 
"  Who  i-  It,  then  .-''  says  he. 

Vatmau.  i.     ''She's  waiting  to  tell  you." 

11    right!     I'd    much    rather    hear    it    1'rom   th;:  ning 

an  than  from   you."  >a\s   lie.  ami   pies   into  the  house  in  a 
•ity  hurry. 

What    do  you  think  of  that.   Inspector   Thea!  Would 

you    like   to  stand   in    Mr.  Sharpin's   shoes?      1   shouldn't,    I 
promise  , 

•'RTHF.y  To    MR.   M. \TTF1KW    SUM 

July  IClh. 

mt  Bulmer  has  alrcad\   ti>ld  you  to  conoid 
I   until  further  n< 


164  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

add  that  your  services  as  a  member  of  the  Detective  Police  are 
positively  declined.  You  will  please  to  take  this  letter  as  noti- 
fying officially  your  dismissal  from  the  force. 

I  may  inform  you,  privately,  that  your  rejection  is  not  in- 
tended to  cast  any  reflections  on  your  character.  It  merely  im- 
plies that  you  are  not  quite  sharp  enough  for  our  purposes.  If 
we  are  to  have  a  new  recruit  among  us,  we  should  infinitely 
prefer  Mrs.  Yatman.  Your  obedient  servant, 

FRANCIS  THEAKSTONEO 

NOTE  ON  THE  PRECEDING   CORRESPONDENCE,   ADDED  BY  MR. 

THEAKSTONE. 

The  inspector  is  not  in  a  position  to  append  any  explanations 
of  importance  to  the  last  of  the  letters.  It  has  been  discovered 
that  Mr.  Matthew  Sharpin  left  the  house  in  Rutherford  Street 
five  minutes  after  his  interview  outside  of  it  with  Sergeant 
Bulmer,  his  manner  expressing  the  liveliest  emotions  of  terror 
and  astonishment,  and  his  left  cheek  displaying  a  bright  patch 
of  red,  which  looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  the  result  of  what 
is  popularly  termed  a  smart  box  on  the  ear.  He  was  also  heard 
by  the  shopman  at  Rutherford  Street  to  use  a  very  shocking  ex- 
pression in  reference  to  Mrs.  Yatman,  and  was  seen  to  clinch  his 
fist  vindictively  as  he  ran  round  the  corner  of  the  street.  Noth- 
ing more  has  been  heard  of  him;  and  it  is  conjectured  that  he 
has  left  London^  with  the  intention  of  offering  his  valuable  serv- 
ices to  the  provincial  police. 

On  the  interesting  domestic  subject  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Yatman 
still  less  is  known.  It  has,  however,  been  positively  ascertained 
that  the  medical  attendant  of  the  family  was  sent  for  in  a  great 
hurry  on  the  day  when  Mr.  Yatman  returned  from  the  milli- 
ner's shop.  The  neighboring  chemist  received,  soon  afterward, 
a  prescription  of  a  soothing  nature  to  make  up  for  Mrs.  Yatman. 
The  day  after,  Mr.  Yatman  purchased  some  smelling-salts  at  the 
shop,  and  afterward  appeared  at  the  circulating  library  to  ask 
for  a  novel  descriptive  of  high  life  that  would  amuse  an  invalid 
lady.  It  has  been  inferred  from  these  circumstances  that  he 
has  not  thought  it  desirable  to  carry  out  his  threat  of  separating 
from  his  wife,  at  least  in  the  present  (presum  condition  of 
that  lady's  sensitive  nervous  system. 

THE  SEVENTH  DAY. 

FINE  enough  for  our  guest  to  go  out  again.  Long,  feathery 
lines  of  white  cloud  are  waving  upward  in  the  sky,  a  sign  of 
coming  wind. 

There  was  a  steamer  telegraphed  yesterday  from  the  West 
Indies.  When  the  next  vessel  is  announced  from  abroad,  will 
it  be  George's  ship  ? 

I  don't  know  how  my  brothers  feel  to-day,  but  the  sudden  ces- 
sation of  my  own  literary  labors  has  left  me  still  in  bad  spirits. 
I  tried  to  occupy  my  mind  by  reading,  but  my  attention  wan- 
dered. I  went  out  into  the  garden,  but  it  looked  dreary;  the 


THE    QVi  165 

autumn  ftowc"  i  -the  lawn  k*-d 

and    sodden    with  in.     I    wandered    ii 

tied  to  his   painting,  but  was  nd  \\orkr 
me,  with  his  customars  as.-iduity  and  hi<  custom 

.«  lit. 

had  a  long  talk  together  alxmt  George  and  Jessie  and  the 
future.     Owen  ur^ed  me  to  risk  speaking  of  my  son  in  h> 
ence  once  more,  on  Hie  chance  of  making  her  betray  herself  on 

ion.  and  I  determined  to  take  his  advice.  But 
h  high  spirits  when  she  came  home  to  dinner  on  this 
Seventh  Day,  and  seemed  so  incapable,  for  the  time  being,  of 
either  feeling  or  speaking  seriously,  that  I  thought  it  \\ 
wait  till  her  variable  mood  altered  again  with  the  next  wet  day. 
The  number  drawn  this  evening  was  Eight,  being  the  number 
of  the  story  which  it  had  cost  Owen  so  much  labor  to  write.  He 
lookedalittle  fluttered  and  anxious  as  he  opened  the  manuscript. 
This  was  the  tirst  occasion  on  which  his  ability  as  a  narrator  was 
to  be  brought  to  the  test,  and  I  saw  him  glance  nervously  at 
Jessie's  attentive  face. 

"1  need  not  trouble  you  with  much  in  the  way  of  preface," 
he  said.  "This  is  the  story  of  a  very  remarkable  event  in  the 
life  of  one  of  my  brother  clergymen.  He  and  I  became  ac- 
quainted through  being  associated  with  each  other  in  the  man- 
agement of  a  Missionary  Society.  I  saw  him  for  the  last  time 
in  London  when  he  was  about  to  leave  his  country  and  his 
friends  forever,  and  wa£  then  informed  of  the  circumstances 
which  have  afforded  the  material  for  this  narrative." 


BROTHER  OWEN'S  STORY  OF  THE  PARSON'S  SCRUPLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 
IF  you  had  been  in  the  far  West  of  Ei^gland  about  thir 

•  •e,  and  if  you  had  happened  to  take  up  one  of  the  l.'or- 
nisli  newspapers  on  a  certain  day  of  the  month,  which  need  not 
be  specially  mentioned,  you  would  have  seen  this  notice  of  a 
marriage  at  the  top  of  a  column: 

On  the  third  instant,  at  the  parish  church,  the  Reverend  A 1- 
fredrarlin^.  Rector  of  Penliddy,  to  Emily  I  :'  the 

late  Fergus  Duncan,  Esq.,  of  Glendarn,  N.  B. 

The  rector's  marriage  did  not  produce  a   very  favorable  im- 

ion  in  the  town,  solely  in  consequence  of  the  unaccoun 
private  and    unpretending  manner  in  which  th  hnd 

been   performed.     The  middle-a.^ed  bride  and  had 

walked  quietly  to  church  one  morning,  had  been  married  by  tho 
curate  before  any  01,  it.  and  iiad  < 

diately  afterward   in   the    steamer  for    Ten  by,  win  i 

-  their   honeymoon.     The   1 

I'ldy,  all  inquiries  about   JUT  piwioi  fruitless, 

and  the  townspeople  had  no  alternative  but  ton 


166  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

investigations  for  enlightenment  when  the  rector  and  his  wife 
came  home  to  settle  among  their  friends. 

After  six  weeks'  absence  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Carling  returned,  and 
the  simple  story  of  the  rector's  courtship  and  marriage  was 
gathered  together  in  fragments,  by  inquisitive  friends,  from  his 
own  lips  and  from  the  lips  of  his  wife* 

Mr.  Carling  and  Mrs.  Duncan  had  met  at  Torquay.  The  rec- 
tor, who  had  exchanged  houses  and  duties  for  the  season  with  a 
brother  clergyman  settled  at  Torquay,  had  called  on  Mrs.  Dun- 
can in  his  clerical  capacity,  and  had  come  away  from  the  inter- 
view deeply  impressed  and  interested  by  the  widow's  manner 
and  conversation.  The  visit  was  repeated;  the  acquaintance 
grew  into  friendship,  and  the  friendship  into  love — ardent,  de- 
voted love  on  both  sides. 

Middle-aged  man  though  he  was,  this  was  Mr.  Carling's  first 
attachment,  and  it  was  met  by  the  same  freshness  of  feeling  on 
the  lady's  part.  Her  life  with  her  first  husband  had  not  been  a 
happy  one.  She  had  made  the  fatal  mistake  of  marrying  to 
please  her  parents  rather  than  herself,  and  had  repented  it  ever 
afterward.  On  her  husband's  death  his  family  had  not  behaved 
well  to  her,  and  she  had  passed  her  widowhood,  with  her  only 
child,  a  daughter,  in  the  retirement  of  a  small  Scotch  town, 
many  miles  away  from  the  home  of  her  married  life.  After  a 
time  the  little  girl's  health  had  begun  to  fail,  and,  by  the  doc- 
tor's advice,  she  had  migrated  southward  to  the  mild  climate  of 
Torquay.  The  change  had  proved  to  be«of  no  avail,  and  rather 
more  than  a  year  since  the  child  had  died.  The  place  where  her 
darling  was  buried  was  a  sacred  place  to  her,  and  she  had  re- 
mained a  resident  at  Torquay.  Her  position  in  the  world  was 
now  a  lonely  one.  She  was  herself  an  only  child;  her  father 
and  mother  were  both  dead;  and,  excepting  cousins,  her  one 
near  relation  left  alive  was  a  maternal  uncle  living  in  London. 

These  particulars  were  all  related  simply  and  unaffectedly  be- 
fore Mr.  Carling  ventured  on  the  confession  of  his  attachment. 
When  he  made  his  proposal  of  marriage,  Mrs.  Duncan  received 
it  with  an  excess  of  agitation  which  astonished  and  almost 
alarmed  the  inexperienced  clergyman.  As  soon  as  she  could 
speak  she  begged,  with  extraordinary  earnestness  and  anxiety, 
for  a  week  to  consider  her  answer,  and  requested  Mr.  Carling 
not  to  visit  her  on  any  account  until  the  week  had  expired. 

The  next  morning  she  and  her  maid  departed  for  London. 
They  did  not  return  until  the  week  for  consideration  had  ex- 
pired. On  the  eighth  day  Mr.  Carling  called  again  and  was 
accepted. 

The  proposal  to  make  the  marriage  as  private  as  possible  came 
from  the  lady.  She  had  been  to  London  to  consult  her  uncle 
(whose  health,  she  regretted  to  say,  would  not  allow  him  to 
travel  to  Cornwall  to  give  his  niece  away  at  the  altar),  and  he 
agreed  with  Mrs.  Duncan  that  the  wedding  could  not  be  too  pri- 
vate and  unpretending.  If  it  was  made  public,  the  family  of 
her  first  husband  would  expect  cards  to  be  sent  to  them,  and  a 
renewal  of  intercourse,  which  would  be  painful  on  both  sides, 
might  be  the  consequence.  Other  friends  in  Scotland,  again, 


7V/  167 

would  resent  her  marry!  -ond  time  at  her  age,  and  would 

er  and  annoy  her  future  husband   in   t>  She 

ith    h»-r   pa 

_rin  a  new  and  happier  Hfe,  un  trammeled  by  any  connection 
witb  id  troubles.     She  urged  the 

had  i  offer  of  marriage,  with  an  agitation  which  was 

almost  painful  to  sec.     This  peculiarity  in  her  conduct,  how 
li  might  have  irritated  some  men,  and  rendered  other- 
i  ul,  had  no  unfavorable  effect  on  Mr.  Carling.     He  » 
down  t<>  an  excess  of  sensitiveness  and  delicacy  which  charmed 
him.     H  liuiself — though  he  never  would  confess   it— a 

shy,  nervous  man  hy  nature.     Ostentation  of  any  sort  was  some- 
which  he  shrank  from  instinctively,  even  in  the  simplest 
daily  life;  and  his   future  wife's  proposal  to  avoid  all 
the  usual    ceremony  and  publicity  of  a  wedding  was  therefore 

re  thau  !e  to  him—it  was  a  positive  relief. 

The  courtship  was  kept  secret  at  Torquay,  and  the  man 

••rated  privately  at  IVnliddy.     It  found  its  way  into  the 

a  matter  of  course,  but  it  was  not,  as  n 
j,  ad \ertised  in  the  Tinu-x.     Both  husband  and  wife 
lally  happy  in    the  enjoyment  of  their  tnew  life,   and 
equally  unsocial  in  taking  no  measures  whatever  to  publish  it  to 
otn< 

Such  was  tlie  story  of  the  rector's  marriage.     Socially,  Mr. 
( 'arling's  position  was  hut  little  affected  either  way  by  the  change 
in  his  life.     As  a  bachelor,  his  circle  of  friends  had  been  a  small 
and  when  lie  married  he  made  no  attempt  to  enlarge  it.    He 
had  never  been  popular  with  the  inhabitants  of  his  parish  gen- 
erally ntially  a  weak   man,  he  was,  like  other  weak  men, 
only  rting  himself  positively  in  serious  matters 
by  runninu    into  extremes.     As   a  consequence  of  this   moral 
defect,  he  presented  ingular  anomalies  in  character.     In 
the  ordinary  ;,tl'airs  of  life  he  was  the  gentlest  and  most  yield- 
ing of  men.   but   in   all    that  related  to  strictness  of  religious 
principle  he  was  the  ster  .  the  mi  fanatics. 
In  the  pulpit,  lie  was  a  preacher  of  merciless  sermons — an  inter- 
r  of  the  Uible  by  the  letter  rather  than  by  the  spirit,  as  piti- 
one  of  the  Puritans  of  old:  while,  on  the 

other  hand,  by  nis  own  fireside  he  was  considerate,  forbearing, 

and    humble   almost    to  a   fault.     As  a  necessary  result   of  this 

.Mar   in<  •  <-y   of  chara'-ter.  lie  was   feared,  and  soine- 

'•n   disliked,  by  the   members  of  his  congregation  who 

only  knew  him  as  their  pastor,  and  he  was  prized  ami   loved  by 

the  small  fir-le  of  frien.ls  who  also  knew  him  as  a  man. 

Those   friends  gathered   around   him    imu  ,d  more 

itely    than    e\er   after    his   marria. 
int  •>!,!>  ,  but    inllu.  bj  the   ;.  us  that 

icty  of  liis  wife.      Her  re  line 
of  manner:   her  extrai  'nliuan   aeconi|tli-hn 

'iij>er,   ajid    her  quick,   winning, 

womanly  intelligence  in  iiarmed  mie  \\h<> 

appro  iciied  her.     Sheu.i,   i|iioted    as  :i   model  wife  and  woman 
M  her  husbaiKl's  friends,  and  she  amp!; 


168  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

acter  that  they  gave  her.  Although  no  children  came  to  cheer 
it,  a  happier  and  a  more  admirable  married  life  has  seldom  been 
witnessed  in  this  world  than  the  life  which  was  once  to  be  seen 
in  the  rectory  house  at  Penliddy. 

With  these  necessary  explanations,  that  "preliminary  part  of  my 
narrative  of  which  the  events  may  be  massed  together  generally, 
for  brevity's  sake,  comes  to  a  close.  What  I  have  next  to  tell  is 
of  a  deeper  and  a  more  serious  interest,  and  must  be  carefully 
related  in  detail. 

The  rector  and  his  wife  had  lived  together  without,  as  I  hon- 
estly believe,  a  harsh  word  or  an  unkind  look  once  passing  be- 
tween them  for  upward  of  two  years,  when  Mr.  Carling  took  his 
first  step  toward  the  fatal  future  that  was  awaiting  him  by  de- 
voting his  leisure  hours  to  the  apparently  simple  and  harmless 
occupation  of  writing  a  pamphlet. 

He  had  been  connected  for  many  years  with  one  of  our  great 
Missionary  Societies,  and  had  taken  as  active  a  part  as  a  country 
clergyman  could  in  the  management  of  its  affairs.  At  the  period 
of  which  I  speak,  certain  influential  members  of  the  society  had 
proposed  a  plan  for  greatly  extending  the  sphere  of  its  opera- 
tions, trusting  to  a  proportionate  increase  in  the  annual  subscrip- 
tions to  defray  the  additional  expenses  of  the  new  movement. 
The  question  was  not  now  brought  forward  for  the  first  time. 
It  had  been  agitated  eight  years  previously,  and  the  settlement 
of  it  had  been  at  that  time  deferred  to  a  future  opportunity. 
The  revival  of  the  project,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  split  the  work- 
ing members  of  the  society  into  two  parties;  one  party  cautiously 
objecting  to  run  any  risks,  the  other  hopefully  declaring  that  the 
venture  was  a  safe  one,  and  that  success  was  sure  to  attend  it. 
Mr.  Carling  sided  enthusiastically  with  the  members  who  es- 
poused this  latter  side  of  the  question,  and  the  object  of  Ms 
pamphlet  was  to  address  the  subscribers  to  the  society  on  the 
subject,  and  so  to  interest  them  in  it  as  to  win  their  charitable 
support,  on  a  larger  scale  than  usual,  to  the  new  project. 

He  had  worked  hard  at  his  pamphlet,  and  had  got  more  than 
half  way  through  it,  when  he  found  himself  brought  to  a  stand- 
still for  want  of  certain  facts  which  had  been  produced  on  the 
discussion  of  the  question  eight  years  since,  and  which  were 
necessary  to  the  full  and  fair  statement  of  his  case. 

At  first  he  thought  of  writing  to  the  secretary  of  the  society 
for  information;  but,  remembering  that  he  had  not  held  his 
office  more  than  two  years,  he  had  thought  it  little  likely  that  this 
gentleman  would  be  able  to  help  him,  and  looked  back  to  his  own 
Diary  of  the  period  to  see  if  he  had  made  any  notes  in  it  relating 
to  the  original  discussion  of  the  affair.  He  found  a  note  refer- 
ring in  general  terms  only  to  the  matter  in  hand,  but  alluding 
at  the  end  to  a  report  in  the  Times  of  the  proceedings  of  a  depu- 
tation from  the  society  which  had  waited  on  a  member  of  the 
government  of  that  day,  and  to  certain  letters  to  the  editor 
which  had  followed  the  publication  of  the  report.  The  note  de- 
scribed these  letters  as  "  very  important,"  and  Mr.  Carling  felt, 
as  he  put  his  Diary  away  again,  that  the  successful  conclusion 


Til  169 


of  his  pamphlet  now  depended  on  his  IMMII^  nl>!> 
•ack  numbers  of  the 

iim   lie   \VMS  t  bus  stopped  in  In 

and  the  i  of  a  journey  to  London  (the  only  place  he  I 

of  ;it  which  lilts  of  tlic  paper  were  to  l>e  found)  did  not   \n- 
many  ;it  tract  ions;  and  yet  lie  could  sec  no  other  and  easier  in 
of  effecting  his  object.     After  considering  for  a  little  \vhil. 
arriving  at  no  positive  conclusion,  he  left  the  study,  and 
into  tin-  drawing-room  to  con  suit  his  wife. 

He  found  her  working  industriously  by  the  blazing  fire.     She 

•  happy  and  comfortable  —  so  gentle  and  eharmii 
lu-r  pivtty  little  lace  cap.  and  her  warm  brown  morning-dress,  with 
i^ht  cherry  -colored  ribbons,  and  its  delicate  swim's  do\\  n 
trimming  circling  round  her  neck  and  nestling  over  her  bo 
that  he  stooped  and  kissed  her  with  the  tenderness  of  his  bride- 
groom days  before  he  spoke.     When  lie  told  her  of  the  cause  that 

uspended  his  literary  occupation,  she  listened,  with  the  s. 
tion  of  the  kiss  &il\  lingering  in  her  downea  and  her 

smiling  lips,  until  he  came  to  the  subject  of  his  Diary  and  its 
reference  to  the  newspa|>er. 

As  he  mentioned  the  name  of  the  Timcx,  she  altered  and  lo 
him  straight  in  the  face  gravely. 

"Can  you  suggest  any  plan,  love,"  lie  went  on,  "  which  may 
me  the  necessity  oi'  a  journey  to  London  at  this  bleak  time 
of  the  year?    1  must   possitively  have  this  information,  and.  so 
far  as  lean  see,  London  is  the  only  place  at  which  I  can  hope  to 
t  with  a  file  of  the  TYwc.v/' 
\  file  of  the  VYw.s  /"  she  repeated. 
"Yes  —  of  eight  years  since,"  he  said. 
The  instant  the  words  passed  his  lips  he  saw  her  face  over- 

id  by  a  ghastly  paleness;  her  eyes  lixed  on  him  with  a  sti 
mixture  of  rigidity  and  vacancy  in  their  look:  her  hands,  with 
her  work  tijj;ht  in  them,  dropped  slowly  on  her  lap,  and  a  shiver 
ran  through  her  from  head  to  foot. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  snatched  the  smelling-salts  from 
her  work-table,  thinking  she  was  going  to  faint.  She  put  the 
bottle  from  her,  when  he  otj'cred  it.  with  a  hand  that  thrilled 
him  with  the  deadly  eoldne-s  of  its  touch,  and  said,  in  a  whis- 

••  A  sudden  chill,  dear—  let  me  go  np-stairs  and  lie  down." 
1  le  took  her  to  her  room.      As  he  laid  her  down  on  the  bed. 
cau.uht  his  hand,  and  said,  entreatingly  : 

••  You  won't  i^o  t<>  London,  darling,  and  leave  me  here  ill?" 
He  promised  that  nothing  should  separate  him   from  her  until 
she  was  well    a.irain.    ami   then   ran   down-stairs  to  r   (he 

doctor.     The    doctor    came.  and    pronounced    that  rling 

only  sutVerin-j;    from  a  nervous  attack;  that   t; 
the  lea^t  reason  to  be  alarmed;  and  that,  with    proper   care,  she 
would  be  well  a.uain  in  a  few  d.> 

Both  husband  and  u  ife  bad  a  dim  in  the  t 

nat  evei  Mr.  (  'arlin.^  propi-ed  to  \\rii' 

main  with  his  wife.    Hut  -he  \\oiild  not  hear  <•!    hin 
lie  party  on    her    account.     The  d. 


170  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

that  his  patient  should  be  left  to  her  maid's  care,  to  fall  asleep 
under  the  influence  of  the  quieting  medicine  which  he  meant  to 
give  to  her.  Yielding  to  this  advice,  Mr.  Carling  did  his  best  to 
suppress  his  own  anxieties,  and  went  to  the  dinner-party. 


CHAPTER  II. 

AMONG  the  guests  whom  the  rector  met  was  a  gentleman 
named  Rambert,  a  single  man  of  large  fortune,  well  known  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Penliddy  as  the  owner  of  a  noble  country- 
seat  and  the  possessor  of  a  magnificent  library. 

Mr.  Rambert  (with  whom  Mr.  Carling  was  well  acquainted) 
greeted  him  at  the  dinner  party  with  friendly  expressions  of  re- 
gret at  the  time  that  had  elapsed  since  they  had  last  seen  each 
other,  and  mentioned  that  he  had  recently  been  adding  to  his 
collection  of  books  some  rare  old  volumes  of  theology,  which 
he  thought  the  rector  might  find  it  useful  to  look  over.  Mr. 
Carling,  with  the  necessity  of  finishing  his  pamphlet  uppermost 
in  his  mind,  replied,  jestingly,  that  the  species  of  literature 
which  he  was  just  then  most  interested  in  examining  happened 
to  be  precisely  of  the  sort  which  (excepting  novels,  perhaps)  had 
least  affinity  to  theological  writing.  The  necessary  explanation 
followed  this  avowal  as  a  matter  of  course,  and,  to  Mr.  Carting's 
great  delight,  his  friend  turned  on  him  gayly  with  the  most  sur- 
prising and  satisfactory  of  answers: 

"You  don't  know  half  the  resources  of  my  miles  of  book- 
shelves," he  said,  "  or  you  would  never  have  thought  of  going 
to  London  for  what  you  can  get  from  me.  A  whole  side  of  one 
of  my  rooms  up-stairs  is  devoted  to  periodical  literature.  I  have 
reviews,  magazines,  and  three  weekly  newspapers,  bound,  in 
each  case,  from  the  first  number;  and,  what  is  just  now  more 
to  your  purpose,  I  have  the  Times  for  the  last  fifteen  years  in 
huge  half-yearly  volumes.  Give  me  the  date  to-night,  and  you 
shall  have  the  volume  you  want  by  two  o'clock  to-morrow  after- 
noon." 

The  necessary  information  was  given  at  once;  and,  with  a 
great  sense  of  relief,  so  far  as  his  literary  anxieties  were  con- 
cerned, Mr.  Carling  went  home  early  to  see  what  the  quieting 
medicine  had  done  for  his  wife. 

She  had  dozed  a  little  but  had  not  slept.  However,  she  was 
evidently  better,  for  she  was  able  to  take  an  interest  in  the  say- 
ings and  doings  at  the  dinner-party,  and  questioned  her  hus- 
band about  the  guests  and  the  conversation  with  all  a  woman's 
curiosity  about  the  minutest  matters.  She  lay  with  her  face 
turned  toward  him,  and  her  eyes  meeting  his,  until  the  course  of 
her  inquiries  drew  an  answer  ifrom  him  which  informed  her  of  his 
fortunate  discovery  in  relation  to  Mr.  Rambert's  library,  and  of 
the  prospect  it  afforded  of  his  resuming  his  labors  the  next  day. 

When  he  mentioned  this  circumstance  she  suddenly  turned 
her  head  on  the  pillow  so  that  her  l';ire  was  hidden  from  him, 
and  he  could  see  through  the  counterpane  that  the  shivering, 
which  he  had  observed  when  her  illness  had  reized  her  in  the 
morning,  had  returned  again. 


V    OF  TS.  171 

"  I  am  "i,i  i,  in  a  hurried  way,  with  ! 

and 

1 1(    •  iiil,  and  ha<l  'laced  on  the 

that  sh'  I   unwilling   to  I,   lie- 

did  no*   remDve  ihe  clothes  from  her  face  when  he  wished  her 
lit,    hut '  pressed    his    lips   on  her    head,    and   patted    it 
gently  with  IMS  hand.     She  shrank  at  the  touch  as  if  it  hurt  her, 
light  ;is  it  wa:-\  and  In-  went  down-stair-.  <  send  for  tin- 

am  if  she  did  not  get  to  rest  on  being  left  quiet.     Jn 
•Inn    half   an  lrt£lr  afterward  the  maid  came  down  and  re- 
lieved hi--  anxiety  by  reporting  that  her  mistress  vs  ep. 
ling  he  found  her  in  better  spirits.     Here 
aid,  felt  loo  weak  to  bear  thelight.  so  she  kept  the  bedroom 
darkened.   But  in  other  resp>                had  but  little  to  complain  of. 

After  answering  her  husband's  tirst  inquiries  she  questioned 
him  about  his  plans  for  the  day.  He  had  letters  to  write  which 
would  occupy  him  until  twelve  o'clock.  At  two  o'clock  he  ex- 
pected the  \olume  of  the  Time*  to  arrive,  and  he  should  then  de- 
vote the  rest  of  the  afternoon  to  his  work.  After  hearing  what  his 
plan  Mrs.  Carling  suggested  that  he  should  ride  out  after 

he  had  done  his  letters,  so  as  to*  get  some  exercise  at  the  fine  part 
of  the  day;  and  she  then  reminded  him  that  a  longer  time  than 
usual  had  elapsed  since  he  had  been  to  see  a  certain  old  pen- 
sioner of  his,  who  had  nursed  him  as  a  child,  and  who  was  now 
bed-ridden  in  a  village  at  some  distance  called  Tringweighton. 
Although  the  rector  saw  no  immediate  necessity  for  making  this 
charitable  visit,  the  more  especially  as  the  ride  to  the  village  and 
back,  and  the  intermediate  time  devoted  to  gossip,  would  occupy 
at  least  two  hours  and  a  half,  he  assented  to  his  wife's  proposal, 
perceiving  that  she  urged  it  with  unusual  earnestness,  and  being 
unwilling  to  thwart  her,  even  in  a  trifle,  at  a  time  when  she  was 
ill. 

Accordingly  his  horse  was  at  the  door  at  twelve  precisely.  Im- 
pat  lent  to  get  hack  to  the  precious  volume  of  the  Times,  he  rode 
BO  much  faster  than  usual,  and  so  shortened  his  visit  to  the  old 
woman,  that  lie  was  home  again  by  a  quarter  past  two.  Ascer- 
taining from  the  servant  wiio  opened  the  door  that  the  volume 
had  been  left  by  Mr.  Rambert's  messenger  punctually  at  two. 
,  n  up  to  his  wife's  room  to  tell  her  about  his  visit  before  he 
secluded  himself  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  over  his  work. 

On  entering  the  bedroom  he  found  it  still  darkened,  and   he 
struck  1  11  of  burnt  paper  in  it. 

\vife(who  was  n<>w  dressed  in  her  wrapper  and  lyingon  the 
sofa)  accounted  for  the  smell  by  telling  him  that  she  ha 
the  room  felt  close,  and   that   she  had    burnt  some  paper — • 
afraid  of  the  cold  air  if  she  opened  the  window— to  fun 
Her  eyes  were  evidently  still    weak,  for  i>t  her  hand 

them  while  she  spoke.     After  remaining  with   i 
to  relate  the  few  trivial  events  of  In- 
to his  study  to  occupy   himself  at  last  with  the  volume  of  the 
Tin 

It  lay  on  his  table  in  the  shape  of  a  large  flat  brown   j 
package.    On  proceeding  to  undo  the  covering,  ;  that 


172  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

it  had  been  very  carelessy  tied  up.  The  springs  were  crooked 
and  loosely  knotted,  and  the  direction  bearing  hii;  name  ;ind  ad- 
dress, instead  of  being  in  the  middle  of  the  paper,  was  awkwardly 
folded  over  at  the  edge  of  the  volume.  However,  his  business 
was  with  the  inside  of  the  parcel;  so  he  tossed  away  the  cover- 
ing and  the  string,  and  began  at  once  to  hunt  through  the  vol- 
ume for  the  particular  number  of  the  paper  which  be  wished 
first  to  consult. 

He  soon  found  it,  with  the  report  of  the  speeches  delivered  by 
the  members  of  the  deputation,  and  the  answer  returned  by  the 
minister.  After  reading  through  the  report,  and  putting  a  mark 
in  the  place  where  it  occurred,  he  turned  to  the  next  day's  num- 
ber of  the  paper,  to  see  what  further  hints  on  the  subject  the  let- 
ters addressed  to  the  editor  might  happen  to  contain. 

To  his  inexpressible  vexation  and  amazement,  he  found  that 
one  number  of  the  paper  was  missing. 

He  bent  the  two  sides  of  the  volume  back,  looked  closely  be- 
tween the  leaves,  and  saw  immediately  that  the  missing  number 
had  been  cut  out. 

A  vague  sense  of  something  like  alarm  began  to  mingle  with 
his  first  feeling  of  disappointment.  He  wrote  at  once  to  Mr. 
Rambert,  mentioning  the  discovery  he  had  just  made,  and  sent 
the  note  off  by  his  groom,  with  orders  to  the  man  to  wait  for  an 
answer. 

The  reply  with  which  the  servant  returned  was  almost  inso- 
lent in  the  shortness  and  coolness  of  its  tone.  Mr.  Rambert  had 
no  books  in  his  library  which  were  not  in  perfect  condition.  The 
volume  of  the  Times  had  left  his  house  perfect,  and  whatever 
blame  might  attach  to  the  mutilation  of  it  rested,  therefore,  on 
other  shoulders  than  those  of  the  owner. 

Like  many  other  weak  men,  Mr.  Carling  was  secretly  touchy 
on  the  subject  of  his  dignity.  After  reading  the  note  and  ques- 
tioning his  servants,  who  were  certain  that  the  volume  had  not 
been  touched  till  he  had  opened  it,  he  resolved  that  the  missing 
number  of  the  Times  should*  be  procured  at  any  expense  and  in- 
serted in  its  place;  that  the  volume  should  be  sent  back  in- 
stantly, without  a  word  of  comment;  and  that  no  more  books 
from  Mr.  Rambert's  library  should  enter  his  house. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  study  considering  what  first  step 
he  should  take  to  effect  the  purpose  in  view.  Under  the  quick- 
ening influence  of  his  irritation,  an  idea  occurred  to  him,  which, 
if  it  had  only  entered  his  mind  the  day  before,  might  probably 
have  proved  the  means  of  saving  him  from  placing  himself  under 
an  obligation  to  Mr.  Rambert.  He  resolved  to  write  immediately 
to  his  bookseller  and  publisher  in  London  (who  knew  him  well 
as  an  old  and  excellent  customer),  mentioning  the  date  of  the 
back  number  of  the  Times  that  was  required,  and  authorizing 
the  publisher  to  offer  any  reward  he  judged  necessary  to  any 
person  who  might  have  the  means  of  procuring  it  at  the  office  of 
the  paper  or  elsewhere.  This  letter  he  wrote  and  dispatched  in 
good  time  for  the  London  post,  and  then  went  up-stairs  to  see 
bis  wife  and  to  tell  her  what  had  happened. 

Her  room  was  still  darkened  and  she  was  .still  on  the  sofa,   On 


\r    OF    ///•:.  1/tTS.  173 


g  number  sin-  said 

poke  with   lli»«    ' 

temp  ourse  the  pompous  old  f<»«>l  \v.-ix  m,  i  the 

proper  thing  to  do  W88  to   send   hack    the    \olume   in>tantl\ 
take  no  more  notice  of  him, 

"  It  shall  be  sent  back,"  said  Mr.  Carling,  ''but    not  till 

nx  number  is  replaced."    And  he  then  told  her  what  lie 
had  done. 

The  effect  of  that  simple  piece  of  information  on  Mrs.  (  'arling 
was  so  extraordinary  and  so  unaccountable  that  her  husband 
fairh  aghast.  For  the  first  time  siu<  < 

saw  her  temper  suddenly  in  a  flame.  She  started  up  fiom  the 
sofa  and  walked  about  the  room  as  if  she  had  lost  h> 
upbraiding  him  for  making  the  weakest,  of  concessions  t<>  Mr. 
Rambert's  insolent  assumption  that  the  rector  was  t<>  blame.  If 
she  could  only  have  laid  her  hands  on  that  letter,  she  would 
have  consulted  her  husband's  dignity  and  independence  by  put- 
ting it  in  the  fire!  She  hoped  and  prayed  the  number  of  the 
paper  might  not  be  found!  It  fact,  it  was  certain  that  the  num- 
ber, after  all  these  years,  could  not  possibly  be  hunted  up.  The 
idea  of  his  acknowledging  himself  to  be  in  the  wrong  in  that 
when  he  knew  himself  to  be  in  the  right!  It  was  almost 
ridiculous  —  no,  it  was  qiu'ff  ridiculous!  And  she  threw  he 
back  on  the  sofa,  and  suddenly  burst  out  laughing. 

At  the  first  word  of  remonstrance  which  fell  from  her  hus- 
band's lips  her  mood  changed  again  in  an  instant.  She  sprung 
up  once  more,  kissed  him  passionately,  with  tears  streaming 
from  her  eyes,  and  implored  him  to  leave  her  alone  to  recover 
herself.  He  quitted  the  room  so  seriously  alarmed  about  her 
that  he  resolved  to  go  to  the  doctor  privately  and  question  him 
on  the  spot.  There  was  an  unspeakable  dread  in  his  mind  that 
the  nervous  attack  from  which  she  had  been  pronounced  to  bo 
suffering  might  be  a  mere  phrase  intended  to  prepare  him  for 
uture  disclosure  of  something  infinitely  and  indescribably 
worse. 

The  doctor,  on  hearing  Mr.  Carting's  report,  exhibited  no  sur- 
prise and  held  to  his  opinion.  Her  nervous  system  was  out  of 
order,  and  her  husband  had  been  needlessly  frightened  by  a 

•rical   paroxysm.     If   she  did   not  get  better  in    a   v 
change  of  scene  might  then  be  tried.     In  the  meantime,  there 
the  least  cause  for  alarm. 

On  the  next   day  she  was  quieter,  but  she  hardly  spoke  at  all. 
At  night  she  slept  well,  and   Mr.  Oarling's  faith  in  the 
man  iin. 

The  morning  after  was  the  morning  which  won 

ver  from  the  publisher  in  London.     Th- 

ou the  ground  iloor.  and  when   he   heard   1  nan's  knock, 

being  especially  anxious  that  morning  about  his  correep 

.•lit  out  into  the  hall  to  moment  they 

were  put  on  the  table. 

It  was  not  the  footman  who  had  a  ual, 

but  Mrs.  Carling's  maid.     She   had  taken   the  let!  n  the 

postman,  and  she  w  away  with  them  lip-stair^. 


THE    QUEEN    OP   HEARTS. 

He  stopped  her  and  asked  her  why  she  did  net  put  the  letters 
on  the  hall  table  as  usual.  The  maid,  looking  very  much  confused, 
said  that  her  mistress  had  desired  that  whatever  the  postman 
had  brought  that  morning  should  be  carried  up  to  her  room. 
He  took  the  letters  abruptly  from  the  girl,  without  asking  any 
more  questions,  and  went  back  into  his  study. 

Up  to  this  time  no  shadow  of  a  suspicion  had  fallen  on  his 
mind.  Hitherto  there  had  been  a  simple  obvious  explanation 
for  every  unusual  event  that  had  occurred  during  the  last  three 
or  four  days;  but  this  last  circumstance  in  connection  with  the 
letters  was  not  to  be  accounted  for.  Nevertheless,  even  now,  it 
was  not  distrust  of  his  wife  that  was  busy  at  his  mind — he  was 
too  fond  of  her  and  too  proud  of  her  to  feel  it— the  sensation 
was  more  like  uneasy  surprise.  He  longed  to  go  and  question 
her,  and  get  a  satisfactory  answer,  and  have  done  with  it.  But 
there  was  a  voice  speaking  within  him  that  had  never  made  it- 
self heard  before — a  voice  with  a  persistent  warning  in  it,  that 
said,  Wait;  and  look  at  your  letters  first. 

He  spread  them  out  on  the  table  with  hands  that  trembled  he 
knew  not  why.  Among  themjwas  the  back  number  of  the  Times 
for  which  he  had  written  to  London,  with  a  letter  from  the  pub- 
lisher explaining  the  means  by  which  the  copy  had  been  pro- 
cured. 

He  opened  the  newspaper  with  a  vague  feeling  of  alarm  at 
finding  that  those  letters  to  the  editor  which  he  had  been  so 
eager  to  read,  and  that  perfecting  of  the  mutilated  volume 
which  he  had  been  so  anxious  to  accomplish,  had  become  ob- 
jects of  secondary  importance  in  his  mind.  An  inexplicable 
curiosity  about  the  general  contents  of  the  paper  was  now  the 
one  moving  influence  which  asserted  itself  within  him.  He 
spread  open  the  broad  sheet  on  the  table. 

The  first  page  on  which  his  eye  fell  was  the  page  on  the  right- 
hand  side.  It  contained  those  very  letters — three  in  number — 
which  he  had  once  been  so  anxious  to  see.  He  tried  to  read 
them,  but  no  effort  could  fix  his  wandering  attention.  He 
looked  aside  to  the  opposite  page,  on  the  left  hand.  It  was  the 
page  that  contained  the  leading  articles. 

They  were  three  in  number.  The  first  was  on  foreign  politics; 
the  second  was  a  sarcastic  commentary  on  a  recent  division  in 
the  House  of  Lords;  the  third  was  one  of  those  articles  on  social 
subjects  which  have  greatly  and  honorably  helped  to  raise  the 
reputation  of  the  Times  above  all  contest  and  all  rivalry. 

The  lines  of  this  third  article,  which  first  caught  his  eye,  com- 
prised the  opening  sentence  of  the  second  paragraph,  and  con- 
tained these  words: 

"It  appears,  from  tho  narrative,  which  will  be  found  in 
another  part  of  our  columns,  that  this  unfortunate  woman  mar- 
ried, in  the  spring  of  the  year  18 ,  one  Mr.  Fergus  Duncan, 

of  Glendarn,  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland." 

The  letters  swam  and  mingled  together  under  his  eyes  before 
be  could  go  on  to  the  next  sentence.  His  wife  exhibited  as  an 
object  for  public  compassion  in  the  Times  newspaper!  On  the 


77  / 

him,  hi- 
;<,  and  a  deadly  i 
•I    a   sid>  drank 

•  •d   himself — seized  on  the  newspaper  with  h<>ti 

tiling  that  could  feel   the  d 

tion  of  his  grasp,  and  read  the  article  through,  seui 
tener,  word  by  word. 

The  subject  was  the  Law  of  Divorce,  and  the  example  qu< 
wa  ample  of  his  wife. 

that  time  England  stood  disgracefully  alone  as  the 
civilized  country  in  the  world  having  a  divorce  law  for  the  hus- 

i  which  was  not  also  a  divorce  law  for  the  wife.     The  \\ 
in  the   'fine's  boldly  and  eloquently  exposed  this  discreditable 
ialv  in  the  administration  of  justice;  hinted  delicately  at  the 
unutt"r;ible  wrongs  Miii'ered  by  Mrs.  Duncan:  and  plainl 

v?as  indebted  to  the  accident  of  having  been  married  in 
and,  and  to  her  consequent  right  of  appeal  to  I  he  S 
tribunals,  for  a  full  and  linnl  release  from  the  tie  that  bound  lid- 
to  the  vilest  of  husbands,  which  the  English  law  of  that  day  would 
have  n,  lu^-d. 

He  n-ad  that.     Other  men  might  havegone  on  to  the  narrative 
i  from  the  Scotch  newspaper.     But  at  the  last    word  of 
the  article  lie  stopped. 

newspaper,  and  the  unread  details  which  it  contained,  lost 
all  hold  on  his  attention  in  an  instant,  and,  in  their  stead,  living 
and  burning  on  his  mind,  like  the  Letters  of  Doom  on  the  walls 
of  Helshazzar,  there  rose  up  in  judgment  against  him  th- 

if  a  verse  in  the  Gospel  of  Saint  Luke: 
"  IT  irrieih  her  tlntt  /.s  put  <untt/  from  her  I 

committeth  mini1 

He  had  preached  from  these  words.  He  had  warned  his  hearers, 
with  the  whole  strength  of  the  fanatical  sincerity  that  was  in 
him,  to  I  i  prevaricating  with  the  prohibition  which  that 

ned,  and  to  accept  it  as  literally,  unreservedly,  finally 
16  marriage  of  a  divorced  woman.     He  had  in 
on  that  plain  interpretation  of  plain  words  in  terms   \\hich 

_  at  ion  tremble.     And  now  he  Bl  i  the 

'i  chamberseir -c<.n\  icted  of  thedeadly  sin  which 
d  denounced  — he  stood,  as  he  had  told    the    u  \ 

would   stand   at    the    I 
,Iu<U  ' 

1  h-    was    in  ;    time;    he   never   K 

many    minutes   or   lew   brfon-   th- 
room  idcidy  arul  softly  openr.j.      It  dido; 

in. 

In    her    wli  I, awl    thrown    o 

shoulders;  her   dark   hair,   so    neat   and    glossy  at    other    n 
led  about  her  colorless  cheeks,  and 

r  in  her 
•an  pi.  from   her    husband--!  he   woman    win 

his  lift-  happy  and  had   stained  hi-  -MM!  wilh  a  d.  adlj 
She  n  to  within   a    I  him  with«>i 


176  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

of  her  face.  She  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  look;  she  pointed 
to  the  newspaper  crumpled  in  his  hand,  with  a  strange  gesture; 
she  spoke  to  him  in  a  strange  voice: 

"You  know  it!"  she  said. 

His  eyes  met  hers — she  shrank  from  them — turned — and  laid 
her  arms  and  her  head  heavily  against  the  wall. 

"Oh,  Alfred,"  she  said,  "  I  was  so  lonely  in  the  world,  and  I 
was  so  fond  of  you!'' 

The  woman's  delicacy,  the  woman's  trembling  tenderness 
welled  up  from  her  heart,  and  touched  her  voice  with  a  tone  of 
its  old  sweetness  as  she  murmured  those  simple  words. 

She  said  no  more.  Her  confession  of  her  fault,  her  appeal  to 
their  past  love  for  pardon,  were  both  poured  forth  in  that  one 
sentence.  She  left  it  to  his  own  heart  to  tell  him  the  rest.  How 
anxiously  her  vigilant  love  had  followed  his  every  word  and 
treasured  up  his  every  opinion  in  the  days  when  they  first  met; 
how  weakly  and  falsely,  and  yet  with  how  true  an  affection  for 
him,  she  had  shrunk  from  the  disclosure  which  she  knew  but 
too  well  would  have  separated  them  even  at  the  church  door; 
how  desperately  she  had  fought  against  the  coming  discovery 
which  threatened  to  tear  her  from  the  bosorn  she  clung  to,  and 
to  cast  her  out  into  the  world  with  the  shadow  of  her  own 
shame  to  darken  her  life  to  the  end — all  this  she  left  him  to  feel; 
for  the  moment  which  might  part  them  forever  was  the  mo- 
ment when  she  knew  best  how  truly,  how  passionately  he  had 
loved  her. 

His  lips  trembled  as  he  stood  looking  at  her  in  silence,  and  the 
slow,  burning  tears  dropped  heavily,  one  by  one,  down  his 
cheeks.  The  natural  human  remembrance  of  the  golden  days  of 
their  companionship,  of  the  nights  and  nights  when  that  dear 
head — turned  away  from  him  now  in  unutterable  misery  and 
shame — had  nestled  itself  so  fondly  and  so  happily  on  his  breast, 
fought  hard  to  silence  his  conscience,  to  root  out  his  dreadful 
sense  of  guilt,  to  tear  the  words  of  Judgment  from  their  ruthless 
hold  on  his  mind,  to  claim  him  in  the  sweet  names  of  Pity  and 
of  Love.  If  she  had  turned  and  looked  at  him  at  that  moment, 
their  next  words  would  have  been  spoken  in  each  other's  arms. 
But  the  oppression  of  her  despair  under  his  silence  was  too  heavy 
for  her,  and  she  never  moved. 

He  forced  himself  to  look  away  from  her;  he  struggled  hard 
to  break  the  silence  between  them. 

"  God  forgive  you,  Emily!"  he  said. 

As  her  name  passed  his  lips  his  voice  failed  him,  and  the  tort- 
ure at  his  heart  burst  its  w,ay  out  in  sobs.  He  hurried  to  the 
door  to  spare  her  the  terrible  reproof  of  the  grief  that  had  now 
mastered  him.  When  he  passed  her  she  turned  toward  him  with 
a  faint  cry. 

He  caught  her  as  she  sank  forward,  and  saved  her  from  drop- 
ping on  the  floor.  For  the  last  time  his  arms  closed  round  her. 
For  the  last  time  his  lips  touched  hers — cold  and  insensible  to 
him  now.  He  laid  her  on  the  sofa  and  went  out. 

One  of  the  female  servants  was  crossing  the  hall.  The  girl 
started  as  she  met  him,  and  turned  pale  at  the  sight  of  his  face, 


177 

He  could  not  speak  to  her,  hut  he  pointed  to  tin-  -Judy  door.     He 

ml  ihen  I'-ft  the  hon 

it   more.  ;iti«l    lit-  ;iiid   his   wife  never  met 
in. 

ii  that  last  day.  a  sister  of  Mr.  Carting's — a  mar 
woman  living  in  the   town — came  to  tin-  rector 

with  her.  addressed  1o  the  unhappy  in  f  the 

hous<  -ntained  th>  lines,  blotted  and  stained  with 

"M  grant  us  both  the  time  for  repentance!    If   Iliad 

1   you  less.  I   might  have   trusted  myself  to  see   you   a 
ive  me.  and  pit;.  id  remember  me  in  your  pi 

and  pity,  and  remember  you.'' 

He  had  tried  to  write  more,  but  the  pen  had  dropped  from  his 
hand.     His  sister's  entreaties  had  not  moved  him.     After  giving 
lie  note  to  deliver,  he  had  solemnly  charged  her  to  be  gen- 
tle iu  communicating  the  tidings  that  she  bore,  and  had  departed 
for  London,     lie  heard  all  remonstrances  with  pati< 
d  not  deny  that  the  deception  of  which  his  wife  had  been 
guilty  was  the  most  pardonable  of  all  concealments  of  the  truth, 

rang  from  her  love  for  him;  but  he  had  the 
;<ns\vcr  for  every  one  who  tried  to  plead  with  him — the 
<>m  the  (Jospel  of  Saint  Luke. 

His  purpose  in  traveling  to  London  was  to  make  then* 
arrangements    I'or   his  wife's  future  existence,  and  then  t< 
employment  which  would  separate  him  from  his  home  and  all 
itions.     A  missionary  expedition  to  one  of  the  Pa-'ilie 
Islands  accepted  him  as  a  volunteer.     Broken  in  body  and  spirit, 
his  last  look  of  England  from  the  deck  of  the  ship  was  his   last 
look  at  land.     A  fortnight  afterward  his  brethren  read  the  burial 
Beryii  him  on  a  calm,  cloudless  evening  at  sea.     Before  he 

<  ommitted   to  the  deep,  his  little  pocket   Bible,  which   had 

it  from  his  wife,  was,  in  aecordance  with  his.! 
wishes,  placed  open  on  his  breast,  so  that  the  inscription, 
my  dear  Husband,"  might  rest  o\er  his  heart. 

His  unhappy  wife  Still  lives.  When  the  farewell  lines  of  her 
husband's  writing  reached  her  she  was  incapable  of  compre- 
hending them.  The  mental  prostration  which  had  followed  the 
parti:  -oou  complicated  by  physical  sntf. 

I  he  brain.     To  the  surprise  of  all  who  attended 

ring  with  the  comple! 

onefaciilt\.  which,  in    her   Munition,  poor  thii 
and  a   gain  to   her — the  faculty  of  memory.      From  that  tit 
t hi-  she  I  r  had  the  slightt  >t  u learn  of  recollection  of  any- 

thing that  happened  hef.  Tn  her  happy  ohli 

the  veriest  trifle  new  and  as  in!  f  she 

uning  her  existence  again. 

the  friends  wlio  now  pn  r,  she    li  the   life 

of  a  child.     When  her  last  hour  con  die  \\ith   noth- 

on  her  memory  but.  the  recollection  of  their  kiinlr 


178 


THE  EIGHTH  DAY. 

THE  wind  that  T  saw  in  the  sky  yesterday  has  come.  It  sweeps 
down  our  little  valley  in  angry,  howling  gusts,  and  drives  the 
heavy  showers  before  it  in  great  sheets  of  spray. 

There  are  some  people  who  find  a  strangely  exciting  effect 
produced  on  their  spirits  by  the  noise,  and  rush,  and  tumult  of 
the  elements  on  a  stormy  day.  It  has  never  been  so  with  me, 
and  it  is  less  so  than  ever  now.  I  can  hardly  bear  to  think  of 
my  son  at  sea  in  such  a  tempest  as  this.  "While  I  can  still 
get  no  news  of  his  ship,  morbid  fancies  beset  me  which  I  vainly 
try  to  shake  off.  I  see  the  trees  through  my  window  bending 
before  the  wind.  Are  the  masts  of  the  good  ship  bending  like 
them  at  this  moment?  I  hear  the  wash  of  the  driving  rain.  Is 
he  hearing  the  thunder  of  the  raging  waves?  If  he  had  only 
come  back  last  night! — it  is  vain  to  dwell  on  it,  but  the  thought 
will  haunt  me — if  he  had  only  come  back  last  night! 

I  tried  to  speak  cautiously  about  him  again  to  Jessie,  as  Owen 
had  advised  me;  but  I  am  so  old  and  feeble  now  that  this  ill- 
omened  storm  has  upset  me,  and  I  could  not  feel  sure  enough  of 
my  own  self-control  to  venture  on  matching  myself  to-day 
against  a  light- hearted,  lively  girl,  with  all  her  wits  about  her. 
It  is  so  important  that  I  should  not  betray  George — it  would  be 
so  inexcusable  on  my  part  if  his  interests  suffered,  even  acci- 
dentally, in  my  hands. 

This  was  a  trying  day  for  our  guest.  Her  few  trifling  in-door 
resources  had,  as  I  could  see,  begun  to  lose  their  attractions  for 
her  at  last.  If  we  were  not  now  getting  to  the  end  of  the 
stories,  and  to  the  end,  therefore,  of  the  Ten  Days  also,  our 
chance  of  keeping  her  much  longer  at  the  Glen  Tower  would  be 
a  very  poor  one. 

It  was,  I  think,  a  great  rolief  for  us  all  to  be  summoned  to- 
gether this  evening  for  a  definite  purpose.  The  wind  had  fallen 
a  little  as  it  got  on  toward  dusk.  To  hear  it  growing  gradually 
fainter  and  fainter  in  the  valley  below  added  immeasurably  to 
the  comforting  influence  of  the  blazing  fire  and  the  cheerful 
lights  when  the  shutters  were  closed  for  the  night. 

The  number  drawn  happened  to  be  the  last  of  the  series — Ten 
— and  the  last  also  of  the  stories  which  I  had  written.  There 
were  now  but  two  numbers  left  in  the  bowl.  Owen  and  Morgan 
had  each  one  reading  more  to  accomplish  before  our  guest's  stay 
came  to  an  end,  and  the  manuscripts  in  the  Purple  Volume  were 
all  exhausted. 

"  This  new  story  of  mine,"  I  said,  "  is  not,  like  the  story  I  last 
read,  a  narrative  of  adventures  happening  to  myself,  but  of  ad- 
ventures that  happened  to  a  lady  of  my  acquaintance.  I  was 
brought  into  contact,  in  the  first  instance,  with  one  of  her  male 
relatives,  and,  in  the  second  instance,  with  the  lady  herself,  by 
certain  professional  circumstances  which  I  need  not  particularly 
describe.  They  involved  a  dry  question  of  wills  and  title-deeds 
in  no  way  connected  with  this  story,  but  sufficiently  important 
to  interest  me  as  a  lawyer.  The  ease  came  to  trial  at  ti 


179 

on   my  circuit,  and   T  won   it   in   tli 

\\ell  put  nn  the  other  side.      1  wa-  in  poor  heali 

the  time,  and  m\  exertion  so  completely  knocfe  'ipthat  I 

lined  to  my  bed  in  my  lodgings  for  a  \ 

•fill  lady  came  and  nursed  you,  I  suppi . 
},  in  her  smart,  off-liand  \\ 

iful  lady  did  something  much  moiena(ur.il  in  her 
and  niucii  more  useful   in  mine,'1  I   ans\vered — • 
sent  :  ant  to  attend  on  me.     He  was  an  elderly  man.  who 

had  been  in  I  ice  since  the  time  of  her  first  mairiage,  and 

'so  one  of  the  most  sensible  and  well-informed  person* 
whom  I  have  ever  met  with  in  his  station  of  life.  From  hints 
which  he  dropped  while  he  was  at  my  bedside.  1  discovered  for 
the  first  time  that  his  mistress  hnd  been  unfortunate  in  her 
id  marriage,  and  that  the  troubles  of  that  period  of  her  life 
had  ended  in  one  of  the  most  singular  events  which  had  hap- 
pened in  that  part  of  England  for  many  a  long  da  ft  is 
hardly  necessary  t<>  say  that,  before  I  allowed  the  man  to  enter 
into  any  particulars,  I  stipulated  that  he  should  obtain  his  mis 
ive  to  communicate  what  he  knew.  Having  gained 
this,  and  having  further  surprised  me  by  mentioning  that  he 
had  been  himself  connected  with  all  the  circumstance,  in-  told 
me  the  whole  story  in  the  fullest  detail.  I  have  now  tri> 
reproduce  it  as  nearly  as  I  could  in  his  own  language.  Imagine, 
therefore,  that  I  am  just  languidly  recovering  in  bed,  and  that  a 
respectable  elderly  man,  in  quiet  black  costume,  is  sitting  at  my 

pillow  and  speaking  to  me  in  these  terms " 

Thus  ending  my  little  preface,  I  opened  the  manuscript  and 
began  my  last  story. 


BROTHER  GRIFFITH'S  STORY  OF  A  PLOT  IN  PRIVATE  LIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  first  place  I  got  when  I  began  going  out  to  service  was 
not  a  very  profitable  one.     I  certainly  gained  the  advanta. 
learning  my  business  thoroughly,  but  I  never  had  my  due  in  the 
matter  of  wages.     My  master  was  made  a  bankrupt,   and   his 
servants  sutTered  with  the  rest  of  his  creditors. 

My  second  situation,  however,  amply  compensated  me  for  my 
want  of  luck  in  the  fir>t.     1  had  the  good  fortune   to  enter  the 
ice  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Norcross.     My  master  rich 

gentleman.    He  had  the  Darrock  house  and  lands  in  ' 
land,  an  ]s>>  in  Yorkshire,  and   a 

aica,  which  product  d  at  that  time,  and  for  some  ye. 
ward,  a  great  income.     Out  in  the  West   Ii  !    with  a 

pretty  young  lady,  a  i;-o\vrness  in  ai  b  family,  and,  taking 

>lent  fancy  to  her,  married  her.  though 

and-twenty  years  younger   than    him^  tOT  tin-  wedding 

id.  and  it  was  at  this  time  that  I   was  lucky 
enough  to  be  1  by  them 

I  lived  with  my  new  n  ress  thr 


180  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

had  no  children.  At  the  end  of  that  period  Mr.  Norcross  died. 
He  was  sharp  enough  to  foresee  that  his  youn^  widow  would 
marry  again,  and  he  bequeathed  bis  property  so  thnt  it  all  went 
to  Mrs.  Norcross  first,  and  then  to  any  children  she  might  have 
by  a  second  marriage,  and,  failing  that,  to  relations  and  friends 
of  his  own.  I  did  not  suffer  by  my  master's  death,  for  his  widow 
kept  me  in  her  service.  I  had  attended  on  Mr.  Norcross  all 
through  bis  last  illness,  and  had  made  myself  useful  enough  to 
win  my  mistress'  favor  and  gratitude.  Besides  me  she  also 
retained  her  maid  in  her  service — a  quadroon  woman  named 
Josephine,  whom  she  brought  with  her  from  the  West  Indies. 
Even  at  that  time  I  disliked  the  half-breed's  wheedling  manners 
and  her  cruel,  tawny  face,  and  wondered  how  my  mistress 
could  be  so  fond  of  her  as  she  was.  Time  showed  that  I 
was  right  in  distrusting  this  woman.  I  shall  have  much 
more  to  say  about  her  when  I  get  further  advanced  with  my 
story. 

Meanwhile  I  have  next  to  relate  that  my  mistress  broke  up  the 
rest  of  her  establishment,  and,  taking  me  and  the  lady's  maid 
with  her,  went  to  travel  on  the  Continent 

Among  other  wonderful  places  we  visited  Paris,  Genoa,  Ven- 
ice, Florence,  Rome,  and  Naples,  staying  in  some  of  those  cities 
for  months  together.  The  fame  of  my  mistress'  riches  followed 
her  wherever  she  went;  and  there  were  plenty  of  gentlemen,  for- 
eigners as  well  as  Englishmen,  who  were  anxious  enough  to  get 
into  her  good  graces  and  to  prevail  on  her  to  marry  them.  No- 
body succeeded,  however,  in  producing  any  very  strong  or  last- 
ing impression  on  her;  and  when  we  came  back  to  England, 
after  more  than  two  years  of  absence,  Mrs.  .Norcross  was  still  a 
widow,  and  showed  no  signs  of  wanting  to  change  her  condition. 

We  went  to  the  house  on  the  Yorkshire  estate  first;  but  my 
mistress  did  not  fancy  some  of  the  company  round  about,  so  we 
moved  again  to  Darrock  Hall,  and  made  excursions  from  time  to 
time  in  the  lake  district,  some  miles  off.  On  one  of  these  trips 
Mrs.  Norcross  met  with  some  old  friends,  who  introduced  her  to 
a  gentleman  of  their  party  bearing  the  very  common  and  very 
uninteresting  name  of  Mr.  James  Smith. 

He  was  a  tall,  fine  young  man  enough,  with  black  hair,  which 
grew  very  long,  and  the  biggest,  bushiest  pair  of  black  whiskers  I 
ever  saw.  Altogether  he  had  a  rakish,  unsettled  look,  and  a  bounce- 
able  way  of  talking,  which  made  him  the  prominent  person  in 
company.  He  was  poor  enough  himself,  as  I  heard  from  his 
servant,  but  well  connected— a  gentleman  by  birth  and  educa- 
tion, though  his  manners  were  so  free.  What  my  mistress  saw 
to  like  in  him  I  don't  know;  but  when  she  asked  her  friends  to 
stay  with  her  at  Darrock,  she  included  Mr.  James  Smith  in  the 
invitation.  We  had  a  fine,  gay,  noisy  time  of  it  at  the  Hall,  the 
strange  gentleman,  in  particular,  making  himself  as  much  at 
home  as  if  the  place  belonged  to  him.  T  was  much  surprised  at 
Mrs.  Norcross  putting  up  with  him  as  she  did,  but  T  was  fairly 
thunderstruck  some  months  afterward  when  I  heard  that  she 
and  her  free-and-easy  visitor  were  actually  going  to  be  married! 
She  had  refused  offers  by  dozens  abroad,  from  higher,  and  richer, 


Till':    QUEEN    OP    IlEARi  181 

and  5  havod  men.     It  seemed  next  to  impossible  th;  ' 

could    M-ri"Usly  think   of   throwing    her 

tied,  headlong,  pen'  m  as  Mr.  James 

Smith. 

Married,  nevertheless,  they  were,  in  due  course  of  time;  and, 
after  spending  the  honeymoon  abroad,  thev  came  1  Dar- 

roek  Hall. 

-on  found  that  my  new  master  had  a  very  variable  temper. 
Ther>  ys  when  he  was  as  easy,  and  familiar,  and 

ant  with  his  servants  as  any  gentleman  need  lie.     At 

some  devil  within  him  seemed  to  get  possession   of   his 

whole  nature.     He  flew  into  violent  passions,  and  took  wrong 

into  his  head,  which  no  reasoning  or  remonstrance  could 

It  rather  amazed  rue,  considering  how  gay  ] 
his  tastes,  and  how  restless  his  hahits  were,  that  lie  should  con- 
sent to  live  at  such  a  quiet,  dull  place  as  Darrock.     Tl 
for  this,  however,  soon  came  out.     Mr.  James  Smith  was  not 
much  of  a  sportsman:  he  cared  nothing  for  in-door  amn 
such  ling,  music,  and  so  forth:  and  he  had  no  ambition 

for  representing  the  county  in  Parliament.     The  one  pursuit 
that  he  was  really  fond  of  was  yachting.     Darrock  was  within 
n  miles  of  a  sea-port  town,  with  an  excellent  harbor,  and 
to  this  accident  of  position  the  Hall  was  entirely  indebted  for 
•I unending  itself  as  a  place  of  residence  to  Mr.  James  Smith. 

had  such  an  untiring  enjoyment  and  delight  in  crui 
about  at  sea,  and  all  his  ideas  of  pleasure  seemed  to  be  so  cl< 
connected   with  his  remembrance  of  the  sailing  trips  he  had 
.  on  board  different  yachts  belonging  to  his  friends,  that  I 
v  believe  his  chief  object  in  marrying  my  mistress  was  to 
lie  command  of  money  enough  to  keep  a  vessel  for  himself. 
at  as  it  may,  it  is  certain  that  he  prevailed  on  her,  some 
time  after  their  marriage,   to   make   him  a  present  of  a  fine 
schooner  yacht,  which  was  brought  round  from  Cowes  to  our 
town,  and  kept  always    waiting,  ready  for  him   in   the 
harbor. 

\[\<  wife  required  some  little  persuasion  before  she  could 
make  up  her  mmd  to  let  him  have  the  vessel.  She  suffered  so 
much  from  sea-sickness  that  pleaMire-sailing  was  out  of  the 
question  for  her;  and,  being  very  fond  of  her  husband,  she  was 
naturally  unwilling  that  he  should  engage  in  an  ment 

which  took   him  away  from   her.     However.  Mr.  James  Smith 

his  influence  over  her  cleverly,  promising  that    i 
r  go  away  without  t  ing  her  Iea\  ngaging  that 

•rms  of  absence  at  sea  should  never  la^t  for  : 

'•rdingly,  my    mistress,  who 
and  most   unselfish  woman   in  the  world,  put 
,vn  feel  ie.  ;md  made  her  husband  happy  in  the  pos- 

ion  of  ;i  •!'  his  own. 

While  my  mas;  tress  had  a  dull 

time  i  he    Hall.     The  few    gentlefolks  th. 

part  of  the  country  Imd   at  a  d;  and   could  onl\ 

Darrock  when  tl 
for  the  village  near   us,  there    wa.-   but  i  son   living  in  it 


182  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

whom  my  mistress  could  think  of  asking  to  the  Hall,  and  that 
person  was  the  clergyman  who  did  duty  at  the  church. 

This  gentleman's  name  was  Mr.  Meeke.  He  was  a  single  man, 
very  young,  and  very  lonely  in  his  position.  He  had  a  mild, 
melancholy,  pasty-looking  face,  and  was  shy  and  soft-spoken  as 
a  little  girl — altogether,  what  one  may  call,  without  being  un- 
just or  severe,  a  poor,  weak  creature,  and,  put  of  all  sight,  the 
very  worst  preacher  I  ever  sat  under  in  my  life.  The  one  thing 
he  did,  which,  as  I  heard,  he  could  really  do  well,  was  playing 
on  the  fiddle.  He  was  uncommonly  fond  of  music — so  much  so 
that  he  often  took  his  instrument  out  with  him  when  he  went 
for  a  walk.  This  taste  of  his  was  his  great  recommendation  to 
my  mistress,  who  was  a  wonderfully  fine  player  on  the  piano, 
and  who  was  delighted  to  get  such  a  performer  as  Mr.  Meeke  to 
play  duets  with  her.  Besides  liking  his  society  for  this  reason, 
she  felt  for  him  in  his  lonely  position;  naturally  enough,  I  think, 
considering  how  often  she  was  left  in  solitude  herself.  Mr. 
Meeke,  on  his  side,  when  he  got  over  his  first  shyness,  was  only 
too  glad  to  leave  his  lonesome  littlo  parsonage  for  the  fine  music- 
room  at  the  Hall,  and  for  the  company  of  a  handsome,  kind- 
hearted  lady,  who  made  much  of  him,  and  admired  his  fiddle- 
playing  with  all  her  heart.  Thus  it  happened  that,  whenever 
my  master  was  away  at  sea,  my  mistress  and  Mr.  Meeke  were 
always  together,  playing  duets  as  if  they  had  their  living  to  get 
by  it.  A  more  harmless  connection  than  the  connection  between 
those  two  never  existed  in  this  world,  and  yet,  innocent  as  it 
was,  it  turned  out  to  be  the  first  cause  of  all  the  misfortunes  that 
afterward  happened. 

My  master's  treatment  of  Mr.  Meeke  was,  from  the  first,  the 
very  opposite  of  my  mistress'.  The  restless,  rackety,  bounce- 
able  Mr.  James  Smith  felt  a  contempt  for  the  weak,  womanish, 
fiddling  little  parson,  and,  what  was  more,  did  not  care  to  con- 
ceal it.  For  this  reason,  Mr.  Meeke  (who  was  dreadfully  fright- 
ened by  my  master's  violent  language  and  rough  ways)  very 
seldom  visited  at  the  Hall  except  when  my  mistress  was  alone 
there.  Meaning  no  wrong,  and  therefore  stooping  to  no  con- 
cealment, she  never  thought  of  taking  any  measures  to  keep  Mr. 
Meeke  out  of  the  way  when  he  happened  to  be  with  her  at  the 
time  of  her  husband's  coming  home,  whether  it  was  only  from  a 
riding  excursion  in  the  neighborhood  or  from  a  cruise  in  the 
schooner.  In  this  way  it  so  turned  out  that  whenever  my  mas- 
ter came  home,  after  a  long  or  short  absence,  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  he  found  the  parson  at  the  Hall. 

At  first  he  used  to  laugh  at  this  circumstance,  and  to  amuse 
himself  with  some  coarse  jokes  at  the  expense  of  his  wife  and 
her  companion.  But,  after  awhile,  his  variable  temper  changed, 
as  usual.  He  grew  sulky,  rude,  angry,  and,  at  last,  downright 
jealous  of  Mr.  Meeke.  Though  too  proud  to  confess  it  in  so 
many  words,  he  still  showed  the  state  of  his  mind  clearly  enough 
to  my  mistress  to  excite  her  indignation.  She  was  a  woman 
who  could  be  led  anywhere  by  any  one  for  whom  she  had  a  re- 
gard, but  there  was  a  firm  spirit  within  her  that  rose  at  the 
slightest  show  of  injustice  or  oppression,  and  that  resented 


7V/ 
•mieal  usage  of  any  son  The 

'!  in  ;i  Ham.  the    in*  .  and 

niic  time,  the  in".-,!  natural 

rig  it.     The  ruder  licr  husband  was  to  Mi-.  M.-«-ke,  the  more 
kindly  she  behaved  to  him.     This  led  to  - 
disse?  and  t  hence,  in  time,  to  a  violent  quarrel.     I 

not  avoid  hearing  the  la-t  part  of  the  altercation   between  t 
for  it  took  place  in   the  garden-walk,  outside  the  dining-room 
window,  while  I  was  occupied  in  laying  the  table  for  lun« 

Without  repeating  their  words  —  which  I  have  no  right  to  do, 
having  heard  by  accident  what  I  had  no  business  to  hear  —  T  may 
say  generally,  to  show  how  serious  the  quarrel  was,  that  my 
mistress  charged  my  master  with  having  married  from  m 
nary  motives,  with  keeping  out  of  her  company  a?  much  as  he 
could,  and  with  insulting  her  by  a  suspicion  which  it  would  be 
ha  nl  ever  to  forgive  and  impossible  ever  to  forget.  He  replied 
by  violent  language  directed  against  herself,  and  by  command- 
ing her  never  to  open  the  doors  a^ain  to  Mr.  Meeke;  >!:> 

side,  declaring  that  she   would  never  consent  to  insult   a 
clergyman  and  a  gentleman  in  order  to  satisfy  the  whim 

-mical  husband.  Upon  that  he  called  out,  with  a  great  oath, 
to  have  his  horse  saddled  directly,  declaring  that  he  would  not 
stop  another  instant  under  the  same  roof  with  a  woman  who 
had  set  him  at  defiance,  and  warning  his  wife  that  he  would 
come  back,  if  Mr.  Meeke  entered  the  house  again,  and  1 
whip  him.  in  spite  of  his  black  coat,  all  through  the  villa 

With  those  words  he  left  her,  and  rode  away  to  the  sea-port 

where  hi-;  yacht  was  lying.     My  mistress  kept  up  her  spirit  till 

as  out  of  sight,  and  then  burst  into  a  dreadful  screaming 

<>u  of  tears,  which  ended  by  leaving  her  so  weak   that 

had  to  be  carried  to  her  bed  like  a  woman  who  was  at  the  point 

ath. 

The  same  evening  my  master's  1:  a  ridden  back   1 

•nirer,  who  brought  a  scrap  of  note  paper  with  him  ad<' 
me.     It  only  contained  these  lines: 

"Pack  up  my  clothes  and   deliver  (hem   immediateh   lo  the 
r.     You  may  tell  your  mistress  that  I  sail  to-night 
0  Sweden,     Forward  my  K-t 

ofli< 


d  the  orders  given  to  me  except    that   relating   to  my 
The  doctor  had    1  it    for.    and  'i  the 

housi  .     I  '-'.Msulted  him  upon  the  pvopri 

lie  positively  forehade  me  t-  that    ni 

told  me  to  -ive  him  the  slip  of  paper,  and  leave  it   t 
tion  to  show  it  to  her  or  not  the  ii'-xt  I'lorn 

The    IIP  had  hardly    been    LTOI  our    when    Mr. 

'Came  to  the  Ball  with  a  roll  of  musi. 
my  mistress.     I  told  the  woman  of   my 

ure.  and  of  the  doctor  beimr  in  the  This  news  brought 

Mr.  himself  to  (he  Hall  in  a  -real  thiti. 

I  felt  so  angry  with  him  for  being  the  it  as  he 


184  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

might  be— of  the  shocking  scene  which  had  taken  place,  that  I 
exceeded  the  bounds  of  my  duty,  and  told  him  the  whole  truth. 
The  poor,  weak,  wavering,  childish  creature  flushed  up  red  in 
the  face,  then  turned  as  ]  ale  as  ashes,  and  dropped  into  one  of 
the  hall  chairs  crying — literally  crying  fit  to  break  his  heart. 
"Oh,  William,"  says  he,  wringing  his  little  frail,  trembling 
white  hands  as  helpless  as  a  baby,  "oh,  William,  what  am  I  to 
do?" 

"  As  you  ask  me  that  question,  sir,"  says  I,  "  you  will  excuse 
me,  I  hope,  if,  being  a  servant,  I  plainly  speak  my  mind  not- 
withstanding. I  know  my  station  well  enough  to  be  aware 
that,  strictly  speaking,  I  have  done  wrong,  and  far  exceeded  my 
duty,  in  telling  you  as  much  as  I  have  told  you  already;  but  I 
would  go  through  fire  and  water,  sir,"  says  I,  feeling  my  own 
eyes  getting  moist,  "  for  my  mistress'  sake.  She  has  no  rela- 
tion here  who  can  speak  to  you;  and  it  is  even  better  that  a  serv- 
ant like  me  should  risk  being  guilty  of  an  impertinence,  than 
that  dreadful  and  lasting  mischief  should  arise  from  the  right 
remedy  not  being  applied  at  the  right  time.  This  is  what  I  should 
do,  sir,  in  your  place.  Saving  your  presence,  I  should  leave  off 
crying,  and  go  back  home  and  write  to  Mr.  James  Smith,  say- 
ing that  I  would  not,  as  a  clergyman,  give  him  railing  for  rail- 
ing, but  would  prove  how  unworthily  he  had  suspected  me  by 
ceasing  to  visit  at  the  Hall  from  this  time  forth,  rather  than  be 
a  cause  of  dissension  between  man  and  wife.  If  you  will  put 
that  into  proper  language,  sir,  and  will  have  the  letter  ready  for 
me  in  half  an  hour's  time,  I  will  call  for  it  on  the  fastest  horse 
in  our  stables,  and,  at  my  own  risk,  will  give  it  to  my  master 
before  he  sails  to-night.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say,  sir,  except 
to  ask  your  pardon  for  forgetting  my  proper  place,  and  for 
making  bold  to  speak  on  a  very  serious  matter  as  equal  to  eq  ual, 
and  as  man  to  man." 

To  do  Mr.  Meeke  justice,  he  had  a  heart,  though  it  was  a  very 
small  one.  He  shook  hands  with  me,  and  said  he  accepted  my 
advice  as  the  advice  of  a  friend,  and  so  went  back  to  his  parson- 
age to  write  the  letter.  In  half  an  hour  I  called  for  it  on  horse- 
back, but  it  was  not  ready  for  me.  Mr.  Meeke  was  ridiculously 
nice  about  how  he  should  express  himself  when  he  got  a  pen 
into  his  hand.  I  found  him  with  his  desk  littered  with  rough 
copies,  in  a  perfect  agony  about  how  to  turn  his  phrases  deli- 
cately enough  in  referring  to  my  mistress.  Every  minute  being 
precious,  I  hurried  him  as  much  as  I  could,  without  standing  on 
any  ceremony.  It  took  half  an  hour  more,  with  all  my  efforts, 
before  he  could  make  up  his  mind  that  the  letter  would  do.  I 
started  off  \with  it  at  a  gallop,  and  never  drew  rein  till  I  got  to  the 
sea-port  town. 

The  harbor  clock  chimed  the  quarter  past  eleven  as  I  rode  by 
it,  and  when  I  got  down  to  the  jetty  there  was  no  yacht  to  be 
seen.  She  had  been  cast  off  from  her  moorings  ten  minutes 
before  eleven,  and  as  the  clock  struck  she  had  sailed  out  of  the 
harbor.  I  would  have  followed  in  a  boat,  but  it  was  a  fine  star- 
light night,  with  a  fresh  wind  blowiog,  and  the  saiJors  on  the 
pier  laughed  at  me  when  I  spoke  of  rowing  after  a  schooner 


THE   ^,7<:/-:.\    or  rs. 

yrirht  which  1m I  f  an  ho,  with  the 

wind  abeam  and  flic  tide  in   her  favor. 

I  rode  kick  with  a  heavy  h>  \II    I    could    do   MOV 

send  (he  letter  to  the  post-office.  Stockholm. 

Tile  !;i\    the    doctor    showed    II1V     III! 

with  the  no  on   it  from  my  master,  and  an  hour  or 

two  after  that,  a   1<  Her    was  sent  to  her  in  Mr.  Meeke's  1 
writi  iainin^  tlic  why  she  must  not  expect  to  see 

him  at  the  Hall,  and  rot'errin.ir  to  me  in  terms  of  high  pi 

faithful  man  who  had  spoken  the  right  word  at  the 
right   time.     lam  able  to  repeat  the  substance  of   the   i< 

ise  I  heard  all  about  it  from  my  mistress,  under  very  un- 
pleasant circumstances,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned. 

The  news  of  my  master's  departure  did  not  affect  her  as  the 
doctor  had  supposed  it  would.  Instead  of  distressing  her,  it 
d  her  spirit  and  made  her  angry;  her  pride,  as  I  imagine, 
beinir  wounded  by  the  contemptuous  manner  in  which  her  hus- 
band had  notified  his  intention  of  sailing  to  Sweden  at  the 
of  a  i  to  a  servant  about  packing  his  clothes.  Finding 

her  in  that  temper  of  mind,  the  letter  from  Mr.  Meekeonly  irri- 
tated her  the  more.  She  insisted  on  getting  up,  and  as  soon  as 
she  v,  ed  and  down-stairs,  she  vented  her  violent  humor 

on  me,  reproaching  me  for  impertinent  interference  in  the  a  fairs 
of  my  betters,  and  declaring  that  she  had  almost  made  uj 
mind  to  turn  me  out  of  my  place  for  it.  I  did  not  defend  my- 
self, because  I  respected  her  sorrows  and  the  irritation  that 
came  from  them;  also,  because  I  knew  the  natural  kindne 
her  nature  well  enough  to  be  assured  that  she  would  make 
amends  to  me  for  her  harshness  the  moment  her  mind  was  com- 
posed again.  The  result  showed  that  I  was  right.  That  same 
evening  she  sent  for  me,  and  begged  me  to  forgive  and  forget 
the  hasty  words  she  had  ppokenin  the  morning  with  a  grace  and 
sweetness  that  would  have  won  the  heart  of  any  man  who  list- 
ened to  her. 

Weeks  passed  after  thi«,  till  it  was  more  than  a  month  s 
the  day  of   my  master's  departure,  and  110  letter  in  his  hand- 
writing came  to  Darrock  Hall. 

My  mistress,  taking  this  treatment  more  angrily  than  son 
fully,  went  to  London  to  consult  her  nearest  relations,  who  lived 
there.     On  leaving  home  she  stopped  the  carriage  at  the  parson- 
and  went   in  (as  I   thought,   rather  defiantly)  ! 
•o  Mr.  Meeke.     Site   had    answered    his  letter,  and 
others  from  him,  and  had  answered  them  lik* 

urse,  seen  him   everv  Sunday   at   church,  and   ha 
stopped  to  speak  to  him  after  the  servi<  e:  but  this  was 
occasion  on  which  she  had  visited  him  at  his  house. 
riage  stopped,  the  little  }  out,  in  great  hurry  and  agi- 

tation, to  meet  her  at  thei;ard< 

"Don't  look  alarmed,  Mr.  Meeke."  s, 

out.     "Though  you  have  engaged  '  ill,  1 

have  made  no  promise  to  keep  ;t\\  ;iy  from  the  parso;  With 

those  words  she  went  into  the   hou 

The  quadroon  maid,   Jo>ephii  '  ing  with   me  in 


186  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

rumble  of  the  carriage,  and  I  saw  a  smile  on  her  tawny  face  as 
the  parson  and  his  visitor  went  into  the  house  together.  Harm- 
less HS  Mr.  Meeke  was,  and  innocent  of  all  wrong  as  I  knew  my 
mistress  to  be,  I  regretted  that  she  should  be  so  rash  as  to  de- 
spise appearances,  considering  the  situation  she  was  placed  in. 
She  had  already  exposed  herself  to  be  thought  of  disrespectfully 
by  her  own  maid,  and  it  was  hard  to  say  what  worse  conse- 
quences might  not  happen  after  that. 

Half  an  hour  later  we  were  away  on  our  journey.  My  mis- 
tress stayed  in  London  two  months.  Throughout  all  that  long 
time  no  letter  from  my  master  was  forwarded  to  her  from  the 
country  house, 

CHAPTER   II. 

WHEN  the  two  months  had  passed  we  returned  to  Darrock 
Hall.  Nobody  there  had  received  any  news  in  our  absence  of 
the  whereabouts  of  my  master  and  his  yacht. 

Six  more  weary  weeks  elapsed,  and  in  that  time  but  one  event 
happened  at  the  Hall  to  vary  the  dismal  monotony  of  the  lives 
we  now  led  in  the  solitary  place.  One  morning  Josephine  came 
down  after  dressing  my  mistress  with  her  face  downright  livid 
to  look  at,  except  on  one  cheek,  where  there  was  a  mark  as  red 
as  burning  fire.  1  was  in  the  kitchen  at  the  time,  and  I  asked 
what  was  the  matter. 

"The  matter!''  says  she,  in  her  shrill  voice  and  her  half- foreign 
English.  "  Use  your  own  eyes,  if  you  please,  and  look  at  this 
cheek  of  mine.  What!  have  you  lived  so  long  a  time  with  your 
mistress,  and  don't  you  know  the  mark  of  her  hand  yet?" 

I  was  at  a  loss  to  understand  what  she  meant,  but  she  soon 
explained  herself.  My  mistress,  whose  temper  had  been  sadly 
altered  for  the  worse  by  the  trials  and  humiliations  she  had  gone 
through,  had  got  up  that  morning  more  out  of  humor  than 
usual,  and,  in  answer  to  her  maid's  inquiry  as  to  how  she  had 
passed  the  night,  had  begun  talking  about  her  weary,  miserable 
life  in  an  unusually  fretful  and  desperate  way.  Josephine,  in 
trying  to  cheer  her  spirits,  had  ventured,  most  improperly,  on 
making  a  light,  jesting  reference  to  Mr.  Meeke,  which  had  so 
enraged  my  mistress  that  she  turned  round  sharp  on  the  lialf- 
breed,  and  gave  her— to  use  the  common  phrase — a  smart  box 
on  the  ear.  Josephine  confessed  that,  the  moment  after  she  had 
done  this  her  better  sense  appeared  to  tell  her  that  she  had  taken 
a  most  improper  way  of  resenting  undue  familiarity.  She  had 
immediately  expressed  her  regret  for  having  forgotten  herself, 
and  had  proved  the  sincerity  of  it  by  a  gift  of  half  a  dozen  cam- 
bric handkerchiefs,  presented  as  a  peace-offering  on  the  spot. 
After  that  I  thought  it  impossible  that  Josephine  could  bear  any 
malice  against  a  mistress  whom  she  had  served  ever  since  she 
had  been  a  girl,  and  I  said  as  much  to  her  when  she  had  done 
telling  me  what  had  happened  up-stairs. 

"  I!  Malice!"  cried  Miss  Josephine,  in  her  hard,  sharp,  snap- 
pish way.  "And  why,  and  wherefore,  if  you  please?  If  niy 
mistress  smacks  my  cheek  with  one  hand,  she  gives  me  hand- 


with    tin?   other.      My   «:•»<.•  I    mistres- 

I.  the  servant. 

\h!  yon   !>a<l    man.  even  to  tliink  of 
\h!  fie.  fie!     I  am  quite  aslian 

look  -the   wickedest    look  I  ever   s 
burst   out   laughing— the    harsliest  laugh   I  ever  h- 
AvoinaiTs   lips.     Turning  away  from   me  directly  after,  she 
an<l  in  rred  to  the  subject  again  011  any  BII 

<|iient  occasion. 

l-'n>m   tliat   time,   however,   I  noticed  an  alteration   in 
i-hine;  not    in  the  way  of  doing  her  work,  for  she 
1 rp  and  careful  about  it  as  ever,  but  in  her  manners  and 
iw  nnia/.in-ly  quiet,  and   passed   almost   all  her 
e  time  alone.     I  could  bring  no  charge  against  her  which 
authori/ed  me  to  speak  a  word   of  warning;  but,  for  all  ti 
could  not  help  feeling  that  if  I  had  been  in  my  mistress'  pi.-, 
would   have   followed  up  the  present  of  the  cambric  handker- 
\  ing  her  a  month's  wages  in  advance,  and  sending 
from  the  house  the  same  evening. 

With  the  exception  of  this  little  domestic  matter,  which  ap- 
peared trilling  enough  at  the  time,  but  which  led  to  very  serious 
consequences  afterward,  nothing  happened  at  all  out  of  the  ordi- 
way  during  the  six  weary  weeks  to  which  L  have  referred. 
At  the  beginning  of  the  seventh  week,  however,  an  event  oc- 
curred at  last. 

One  morning  the  postman  brought  a  letter  to  the  Hall  ad- 
»  my  mistress.     I  took  it  up  stairs,  and  looked  at  the 
lion  as  I  put  it  on  the  salver.     The  handwriting  was  not  my 
master's;  was  not.  as  it  appeared  to  me,  the  handwriting  of  any 
well-educated  person.     The  outside  of  the  letter  \\ 
dirty,  and  the  seal  a  common  office-seal  of  the  usual  lattice- 
work pattern.    '•  This  must  be  a  begging-letter,"  1  thought  to  my- 
•is  I  entered  the  breakfast -room  and  advanced  with  it  to  my 
misti 

She  held  up  her  hand  before  she  opened  it,  as  a  sign  to  me 
that  she  had  some  order  to  give,  and  that  I  was  not  to  leave  the 
room  till  I  had  received  it.  Then  she  broke  the  seal  and  began 
to  read  the  letter. 

Her  eyes  had  hardly  been  on  it  a  moment  before  her  face 
turned  as  pale  as  death,  and  the  paper  began  to  tremble  in  her 
;d  on  to  the  end,  and  suddenly  turned  from  pale 
t.  started  out  of  her  chair,  crumpled  the  letter  up 
v  in  her  hand,  and  took  several  turns  backward  and 
in   the   room,  witho  ing  to   notice  me  as  I  stood  1. 

door.     "You  villain!  you  villain!  you  villaii 
'>  herself  many  times  over,  in  a  qi. 
•  she  stopped,  and  said  on  a  sudden.  "  Can  it  be.  t 
she  looked  up.  and.  seeing  me  standing  at  the  d<  'ted  as  if 

1    been  a   stranger,  changed  color  again,  and  told  me.  in  a. 
stitled  voice,  to  i  r  and  come  :iin  in  half  an   hour. 

I  ob.  lain  that   she  must 

had   new-,  of  her    hu-l-aiid.  and 


188  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

When  I  returned  to  the  breakfast-room  her  face  was  as  much 
discomposed  as  ever.  Without  speaking  a  word  she  handed  me 
two  sealed  letters:  one,  a  note  to  be  left  for  Mr.  Meeke  at  the 
parsonage;  the  other,  a  letter  marked  "Immediate,"  and  ad- 
dressed to  her  solicitor  in  London,  who  was  also,  I  should  add, 
her  nearest  living  relative. 

I  left  one  of  these  letters  and  posted  the  other.  When  I  came 
back  I  heard  that  my  mistress  had  taken  to  her  room.  She  re- 
mainecl  there  for  four  days,  keeping  her  new  sorrow,  whatever 
it  was,  strictly  to  herself.  On  the  fifth  day  the  lawyer  from 
London  arrived  at  the  Hall.  My  mistress  went  down  to  him  in 
the  library,  and  was  shut  up  there  with  him  for  nearly  two 
hours.  At  the  end  of  that  time  the  bell  rang  for  me. 

"  Sit  down,  William,"  said  my  mistress,  when  I  came  into  the 
room.  "I  feel  such  entire  confidence  in  your  fidelity  and  at- 
tachment that  I  am  about,  with  the  full  concurrence  of  this 
gentleman,  who  is  my  nearest  relative  and  my  legal  adviser,  to 
place  a  very  serious  secret  in  your  keeping,  and  to  employ  your 
services  on  a  matter  which  is  as  important  to  me  as  a  matter  of 
life  and  death." 

Her  poor  eyes  were  very  red,  and  her  lips  quivered  as  she 
spoke  to  me.  I  was  so  startled  by  what  she  had  said  that  I 
hardly  knew  which  chair  to  sit  in.  She  pointed  to  one  placed 
near  herself  at  the  table,  and  seemed  about  to  speak  to  me  again, 
w-hen  the  lawyer  interfered. 

"Let  me  entreat  you,"  he  said,  "not  to  agitate  yourself  un- 
necessarily. I  will  put  this  person  in  possession  of  the  facts,  and 
if  I  omit  anything,  you  shall  stop  me  and  set  me  right." 

My  mistress  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  handkerchief.  The  lawyer  waited  a  moment,  and 
then  addressed  himself  to  me. 

"You  are  already  aware,"  he  said,  "of  the  circumstances 
under  which  your  master  left  this  house,  and  you  also  know,  I 
have  no  doubt,  that  no  direct  news  of  him  has  reached  your 
mistress  up  to  this  time?" 

I  bowed  to  him,  and  said  I  knew  of  the  circumstances  go  far. 

"Do  you  remember,"  he  went  on,  "taking  a  letter  to  your 
mistress  five  days  ago  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  I  replied;  "a  letter  which  seemed  to  distress  and 
alarm  her  very  seriously." 

"I  will  read  you  that  letter  before  we  say  any  more,"  con- 
tinued the  lawyer.  "I  warn  you  beforehand  that  it  contains  a 
terrible  charge  against  your  master,  which,  however,  is  not  at- 
tested by  the  writer's  signature.  I  have  already  told  your  mis- 
tress that  she  must  not  attach  too  much  importance  to  an  anony- 
mous letter;  and  I  now  tell  you  the  same  thing." 

Saying,  that,  he  took  up  a  letter  from  the  table  and  read  it 
aloud.  I  had  a  copy  of  it  given  to  me  afterward,  which  I  looked 
at  often  enough  to  ttx  the  contents  of  the  letter  in  my  memory. 
I  can  now  repeat  them,  I  think,  word  for  word. 

"  MADAM, — I  cannot  reconcile  it  to  my  conscience  to  leave  you 
in  total  ignorance  of  your  husband's  atrocious  conduct  toward 


7  7  / 

you.    If  you  have  ever  been  disposed  to  r, 

r.      Hope   and    pray,  rat  her,  that    \ou    and    he    may 

iin  in  tliis    world.      I  writ*-  in   t 
•  and  in  great  fear  of  being  observed.     Time  fails  n 

ought  to  be  prepared  for  what  I   have   now  to 
<>se.     I  must  tell   you  plainly,  with   much  respect  for  you 
-orrow  for  your  misfortune,  that  your  husband  /m.s-  in<i 
(mot/  .     L  sa\v  the  ceremony  performed  unknown  to  him. 

If  I  could  not  have  spoken  of  this  infamous  act  as  an  eye  wit- 
I  would  not  have  spoken  of  it  at  all. 

knowledge  who  I  am,  for  I  believe  Mr.  James 
Smith  would  stick  at  no  crime  to  revenge  himself  on  me  if  he 
ame  to  a  knowledge  of  the  step  I  am  now  taking,  and  of 
the  means  by  which  I  got  my  information:  neither  have  I  time 
•  particulars.     I  simply  warn  you  of  what  has  hap- 
pened, and  leave  you  to  act  on  that  warning  as  you  please.     You 
•elieve  this  letter  because  it  is  not   signed  by  any  uarae. 
In  that  case,  if  Mr.  James  Smith  should  ever  venture   into 

nmend  you  to  ask  him  suddenly  what  lie  has 
done  with  his  tn-ir  irifi\  and  to  see  if  his  countenance  does  not 
immediately  testify  that  the  truth  has  been  spoken  hv 

* '  YOUR  UN  K  NOW  x  FRIEND.  " 

Poor  as  my  opinion  was  of  my  master,  I  had  never  believed 
him  to  U>  capable  of  such  villainy  as  this,  and  1  could  not  be- 
lieve it  when  the  lawyer  had  done  reading  the  letter. 

Oh.   sir,"   I  said,    "surely   that   is  some  base    imposition? 

Surely  it  cannot  U>  true?" 

'*  That  is  what  I  have  told  your  mistress,"  he  answered.  *'  But 
she  says  in  return— 

"  That  I  feel  it  to  be  true,"1  my  mistress  broke  in.  ^peaking  be- 
hind the  handkerchief  in  a  faint,  smothered  vo 

We    need    not    debate  the  question."  the    lawyer  went   on. 
•'  Our  bn  now  to  prove  the  truth  or  falsehood  of  thi 

Thar  must    lie  done  at  once.     1   have  written  to  erne  of  my 
clerks,  who  i<  accustomed  to  conducting  delicate  in  ions, 

to  this  house  without  loss  of  time.     He  is  to  b. 

with  anything,  and  he  will  pursue  the  needful  inquiries  imme-- 

iy.     Tt  is  absolutely  nece^ary  to   make  sure  of  committing 

no  mistakes,  (hat  he  should   be  accompanied  by  some  one  who  is 

well  acquainted  with  Mr.  James  Smith's  habits  am.  1  ap- 

.  and  your  mistress  has  fixed  upon  you  to  he  that  p.-r-on. 

11   the  inquiry    is   managed,    it  may    U-   attend, 
much  trouble  and   delay,  may    necessitate  a    long    journey,  and 
>me    personal    danger.        A  the 

lawyer.  I  nan!  at    me,  ready  to  suffer  any  incon 

[md'to  run  any  risk  for  your  mistress' sake?" 

"  There  is  nothing  I  ran  d>  I.    "that  T  will  not 

am  afraid  I  am  not  clever  enough  to  be  of  much  u-< 
is  troubles  and  risks  are  coi  I,  1  am  ready  for  anything 

?rom  this  moment." 

My  mi-tn  -s  took  the  handkerchief  from    her  fac.  i   at 

,th  her  eyes  full  of   tears,  and  held  out  her  hand. 


190  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

came  to  do  it  I  don't  know,  but  I  stooped  down  and  kissed  the 
hand  she  offered  me,  feeling  half  startled,  half  ashamed  at  iny 
own  boldness  the  moment  after. 

"  Yo  will  do,  my  man,"  said  the  lawyer,  nodding  his  head. 
"  Don't  trouble  yourself  about  the  cleverness  or  the  cunning  that 
may  be  wanted.  My  clerk  has  got  head  enough  for  two.  I  have 
only  one  word  more  to  say  before  you  go  down-stairs  again. 
Remember  that  this  investigation  and  the  cause  that  leads  to  it 
must  be  kept  a  profound  secret.  Except  us  three,  and  the 
clergyman  here  (to  whom  your  mistress  has  written  word  of 
what  has  happened),  nobody  knows  anything  about  it.  I  will  let 
my  clerk  into  the  secret  when  he  joins  us.  As  soon  as  you  and 
he  are  away  from  the  house,  you  may  talk  about  it.  Until  then, 
you  will  close  your  lips  on  the  subject." 

The  clerk  did  not  keep  us  long  waiting.  He  came  as  fast  as 
the  mail  from  London  could  bring  him. 

I  had  expected,  from  his  master's  description,  to  see  a  serious, 
sedate  man.  rather  sly  in  his  looks,  and  rather  reserved  in  his 
manner.  To  my  amazement,  this  practiced  hand  at  delicate  in- 
vestigations was  a  brisk,  plump  jolly  little  man,  with  a  comfort- 
able double  chin,  a  pair  of  very  bright  black  eyes,  and  a  big 
bottle-nose  of  the  true  groggy  red  color.  He  wore  a  suit  of 
black,  and  a  limp,  dingy  white  cravat;  took  snuff  perpetually 
out  of  a  very  large  box;  walked  with  his  hands  crossed  behind 
his  back;  and  looked,  upon  the  whole,  much  more  like  a  parson 
of  free-and-easy  habits  than  a  lawyer's  clerk. 

"How  d'ye  do?"  says  he,  when  I  opened  the  door  to  him. 
"I'm  the  man  you  expect  from  the  office  in  London.  Just  say 
Mr.  Dark,  will  you?  I'll  sit  down  here  till  you  come  back;  and, 
young  man,  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  glass  of  ale  in  the  house, 
I  don't  mind  committing  myself  so  far  as  to  say  that  I'll  drink  it." 

I  got  him  the  ale  before  I  announced  him.  He  winked  at  me 
as  he  put  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Your  good  health,"  sa)'S  he.  "  I  like  you.  Don't  forget  that 
the  name's  Dark;  and  just  leave  the  jug  and  glass,  will  you,  in 
case  my  master  keeps  me  waiting." 

I  announced  him  at  once,  and  was  told  to  show  him  into  the 
library. 

When  I  got  back  to  the  ball  the  jug  was  empty,  and  Mr.  Dark 
was  comforting  himself  with  a  pinch  of  snuff,  snorting  over  it 
like  a  perfect  grampus.  He  had  swallowed  more  than  a  pint  oi 
the  strongest  old  ale  in  the  house;  and,  for  all  the  effect  it  seemed 
to  have  had  on  him,  he  might  just  as  well  have  been  drinking 
so  much  water. 

As  I  led  him  along  the  passage  to  the  library,  Josephine  passed 
us.  Mr.  Dark  winked  at  me  again,  and  made  her  a  low  bow. 

"Lady's  maid,"  I  heard  him  whisper  to  himself.  "  A  fine 
woman  to  look  at,  but  a  damned  bad  one  to  deal  with."  I  turned 
round  on  him  rather  angrily  at  his  cool  ways,  and  looked  hare 
at  him  just  before  I  opened  the  library  door.  Mr.  Dark  looker 
hard  at  me.  "All  right,"  says  he.  "lean  show  myself  in.' 
And  he  knocks  at  the  door,  and  opens  it,  and  goes  in  with  an 
other  wicked  wink,  ;))l  iq  a  moment, 


191 
r  the  bell  rang  for  me.    Mr.  Darkwassil 

my    mi-tress  (who    was   looking  at   liiin  in   am 
and  tin-  i  A- ho    was    looking   at    him    wit! 

upon  his  knee,  and  a  pen  in  his  hand.     J  u 
by  In  "inmunieation  of  the   -eeret  about    my   n 

did  not  seem  to  have  made  the  smallest  impression  on  him. 
"  1  •  to  ask  you  a  question."  sa\  >  lie,  the  mon« 

When  you  found  your  master's  yacht  gone,  did  you 
which   way   she   had   sailed?      Was   it   northward    t' 
:  land '.-     Speak  up.  voting  man,  speak  up!" 

"  Yes,"  1  answered.      "  The  boatmen  told  me  that  when  1  made 
inquiries  at  the  harbor." 

"  Well.  ir.  Dark,  turuingto  the  lawyer.   "  if  li- 

as going  to  Sweden,  he  seems  to  have  stalled  on  the  road  to 
it  at  all  events.     I  thud;  T  have  got  my  instructions  now?" 

The  lawver  nodded,  and    looked    at   my    n.  who   b< 

her  head  to  him.     He  then  said,  turning  to  me: 

uek  up  your  bag  for  traveling  at  once,  and  have  a  con 
got   ready  to  go  to  the  nearest  post-town.     Look  sharp, 
young  man — look  sharp'/' 

nd,  whatever  happens  in  the  future,"  added  my  HUM 
her  kind  voice  trembling  a  little,  "  believe.  William,  that  I  --b;dl 
never  forget  the  proof  you  now  show  of  your  devotion  to  me. 
It  is  still  some  comfort  to  know  that  I  have  your  fidelity  to  de- 
pend on  in  this  dreadful  trial — your  fidelity  and  the  extraordinary 
intelligence  and  experience  of  Mr.  Dark." 

Mr.  Dark  did  not  seem  to  hear  the  compliment.     He  was  busy 
writing,  with  his  paper  upon  the  map  on  his  knee. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  when   I    had  ordered  the  < 
and  had   got  down   into  the   hall  with  my  bag  packed.  I  found 
him  there  waiting  for  me.     He  was  sitting  in    the   same  chair 
which   he  had  occupied  when   he  tir-t   arrived,  and   he   had  an- 
other jug  of  the  old  ale  on  the  table  by  his  side. 

ny  fishing-rods  in  the  house?"  -ays  he,  when  I  put  my 
down  in  the  hall. 

••  Yes,"  I  replied,  astonished  at  the  question.      '•  What  do 
wain  with  tl; 

•iiple  in  cases  for  traveling."  says  Mr.  Dark.  ••  with 
and   hooks,  and  fly-books   all  complete.      Ha\ 

"U  go— and    don't   stare.  William,   do; 
I'll  let  the  light  in  on    you   as  soon  as  -we  are  out    of  ti 
Off  with  you  for  the  Vods!     I  wain 
Bainu 

When  1  cam*1  back  with  II:.  !«•  1  found  Mr.  Dark 

in  tl 

"  MOI.,  \  .  lishing-n*K  p.i 

anonymous  letter,  guide-book,  map." 

•dud  the  things  wan  the- journey— "  all  right,  so  far. 

>k  the  reins  and  started  the  h<>' 
:iy  mistress  and  .Josephine  looking  f  the 
wind,                              ,,jid   floor.     The  m  two  at- 
tentive face.-— one  .-.o  fair  and  so  good,  the  oth.  How  and 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

so  wicked — haunted  my  mind  perpetually  for  many  days  after- 
ward. 

"  Now,  William,  "  says  Mr.  Dark,  when  we  were  clear  of  the 
lodge  gates,  "  I'm  going  to  begin  by  telling  you  that  you  must 
step  out  of  your  own  character  till  further  notice.  You  are  a 
clerk  in  a  bank,  and  I'm  another.  We  have  got  our  regular 
holiday,  that  comes,  like  Christmas,  once  a  year,  and  we  are 
taking  a  little  tour  in  Scotland  to  see  the  curiosities,  and  to 
breathe  the  sea  air,  and  to  get  some  fishing  whenever  we  can. 
I'm  the  fat  cashier  who  digs  holes  in  a  drawerful  of  gold  with  a 
copper  shovel,  and  you're  the  arithmetical  young  man  who  sits 
on  a  perch  behind  me  and  keeps  the  books/  Scotland's  a  beau- 
tiful country,  William.  Can  you  make  whisky-toddy  ?  I  can; 
and,  what's  more,  unlikely  as  the  thing  may  seem  to  you,  I  can 
actually  drink  it  into  the  bargain." 

"  Scotland!"  says  I.    "  What  are  we  going  to  Scotland  for?" 
"Question   for  question,"  says  Mr.    Dark.     "What  are   we 
starting  on  a  journey  for?" 

"  To  find  my  master,"  I  answered,  "  and  to  make  sure  if  the 
letter  about  him  is  true." 

"  Very  good,"  says  he.  "  How  would  you  set  about  doing 
that,  eh  ?" 

"  I  should  go  and  ask  about  him  at  Stockholm  in  Sweden, 
where  he  said  his  letters  were  to  be  sent." 

'*  Should  you,  indeed  ?"  says  Mr.  Dark.  "  If  you  were  a  shep- 
herd, William,  and  had  lost  a  sheep  in  Cumberland,  would  you 
begin  looking  for  it  at  the  Land's  End,  or  would  you  try  a  little 
nearer  home?" 

*'  You're  attempting  to  make  a  fool  of  me  now,"  says  I. 

"  No,"  says  Mr.  Dark.     "  I'm  only  letting  the  light  in  on  you, 
as  I  said  I  would.     Now  listen  to  reason,  William,  and  profit  by 
it  as  much  as  you  can.     Mr.  James  Smith  says  he  is  going  on  a 
cruise  to  Sweden,  and  makes  his  word  good,  at  the  beginning, 
by  starting  northward  toward  the   coast  of  Scotland.     What 
does  he  go  in  ?    A  yacht .     Do  yachts  carry  live  beasts  and  a 
butcher  on  board?    No.     Will  joints  of  meat  keep  fresh  all  the 
way  from  Cumberland  to  Sweden?    No.     Do  gentlemen   like 
living  on  salt  provisions  ?    No.     What  follows  from  these  three 
Noes  ?    That  Mr.  James  Smith  must  have  stopped  somewhere  or 
the  way  to  Sweden  to  supply  his  sea-larder  with  fresh  provisions 
Where,  in  that  case,  must  he  stop.     Somewhere  in  Scotland 
supposing  he  didn't  alter  his  course  when  he  was  out  of  sight  o 
your  sea-port.     Where  in  Scotland  ?    Northward  on  the  mail 
land;  or  westward  at  one  of  the  islands  ?    Most  likely  on  the  mail 
land,  where  the  sea-side  places  are  largest,  and  where  he  is  sur 
of  getting  all  the  stores  he  wants.     Next,  what  is  our  business 
Not  to  risk  losing  a  link  in  the  chain  of  evidence  by  missing  an 
place  where  he  has  put  his  foot  on  shore.     Not  to  overshoot  th 
mark  when  we  want  to  hit  it  in  the  bull's-eye.     Not  to  wast 
money  and  time  by  taking  a  long  trip  to  Sweden  till  we  kno1 
that  we  must  absolutely  go  there.     Where  is  our  journey  of  di 
co' .-cry  to  take  us  to  first,  then  ?    Clearly  to  the  north  of  Sco 


77/7':   vr/-:/'.\v  OF  193 

land.     What  do  you  say  to  that .  Mr.  William  ?    Is  my  catechism 
all  <  de  muddled  my  hea 

:hat   no  ale  could  do  that,  and  I 
i>-d,  winked  at  me.  and   taking 
ould  now  turn   the  \vli 

ind  make  KUIV  that  he  had  got  all    :  rings 

ol  it  ijur 

the  time  lie  reached  the  post-town  he  had  accomplished 
aental  eifurt  to  liis  own  perfect  satisfaction,  and  was  quite 
to  compare  the  ale  at  the  inn  with  the  aleatDarrock  Hall. 
\\as  left  to  be  taken  back  the  next  morning  by  the 
hostler.     A  post-chaise  and  horses  were  ordered  out.     A  lo 
bread,  a  Bologna  sausage,  and  two  bottles  of  sherry  were  put  into 
the  p«  :  nage;  we  took  our  seats,  and  started  briskly 

on  our  doubtful  journey. 

''One  word  more  of  friendly  advice,"  says  Mr.  Dark,  settling 
himself  comfortably  in  his  corner  of  the  carriage.     ''Take  your 
William,  whenever  you  feel  that  you   can   get  it.     You 
won't  find  yourself  in  bed  again  till  we  get  to  Glasgow." 


CHAPTER  III. 

ALTHOUGH  the  events  that  I  am  now  relating  happened  many 

ago,  I  shall   still,  for  caution's  sake,  avoid  mentioning  by 

name  the  various  places  visited  by  Mr.  Dark  and  myself  for  the 

purpose  of  making  inquiries.     It  will   be  enough  if  I  describe 

ally  what  wo  did,  and  if  I  mention  in  substance  only  the 

which  we  ultimately  arrived. 

On  reaching  Glasgow,  Mr.  Dark  turned  the  whole  case  over  in 

;nd  once  more.     The  result  was  that  he  altered  his  original 

tion  of  going  straight  to  the  north  of  Scotland,  considering 

Per  to    make   sure,  if  possible,  of  the  cour  icht  had 

aken  in  her  cruise  along  the  western  c< 

The  carrying  out  of  this  new  resolution  involved  the  necessity 
f  delaying  our  onward  journey  by  perpetually  diverging  from 
lie  direct  road.  Three  \\\\\  ^  we  to  wild 

in   the    Hebrides   by  false  reports.     Twice   we   wandered 
inland,  following  gentlemen   who  answered   generally  to 
ption  of   Mr.  James   Smith,  but  who    turned  out   to  be 
rong  m-  -n  as  we   set  eyes  on  them.     These  vain  ex- 

ns — especially  the  three  to  the  western   island- — consumed 
It  wax  more  than  t  wo  months  from  the  <! 

Hall   before  we  found   oui  ;>  at   the 

rotland  at  last,  driving  into  a  <  .-side 

own,  with  a  harbor  attached  to  it.     Thus   far  our  journey  had 

ilts,  and  I  began  to  despair  for   Mr. 

he  never  -ot  to  the  end  of    hi- 

••  Yon  don't  know  how  to  wait.  William."  was  his  constant 
•em ark  whenever  lie  heard  me  complainin 

•\Yedroveinto  the  town  toward  eveiim  ^ttle 

:iid  put  up.  according  to  (air  u-ual  .at  one  of  the  in- 

erior  inns. 


194  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

11  We  must  begin  at  the  bottom,"  Mr.  Dark  used  to  say.  "  High 
company  in  a  coffee-room  won't  be  familiar  with  us;  low  com- 
pany in  a  tap- room  will."  And  he  certainly  proved  the  truth  of 
his  own  words.  The  like  of  him  for  making  intimate  friends  of 
total  strangers  at  the  shortest  notice  I  have  never  met  with  be- 
fore or  since.  Cautious  as  the  Scotch  are,  Mr.  Dark  seemed  to 
have  the  knack  of  twisting  them  round  his  finger  as  he  pleased. 
He  varied  his  way  artfully  with  different  men,  but  there  were 
three  standing  opinions  of  his  which  he  made  a  point  of  express- 
ing in  all  varieties  of  company  while  we  were  in  Scotland.  In 
the  first  place,  he  thought  the  view  of  Edinburgh  from  Arthur's 
Seat  the  finest  in  the  world.  In  the  second  place  he  considered 
wMeky  to  be  the  most  wholesome  spirit  in  the  world.  In  the 
third  place,  he  believed  his  late  beloved  mother  to  be  the  best 
woman  in  the  world.  It  may  be  worthy  of  note  that,  whenever 
he  expressed  this  last  opinion  in  Scotland,  he  invariably  a,dded 
that  her  maiden  name  was  Macleod. 

Well,  we  put  up  at  a  modest  little  inn,  near  the  harbor.  I 
was  dead  tired  with  the  journey,  and  lay  down  on  my  bed  to 
get  some  rest.  Mr.  Dark,  whom  nothing  ever  fatigued,  left  me 
to  take  his  toddy  and  pipe  among  the  company  in  the  tap- 
room. 

I  don't  know  how  long  I  had  been  asleep  when  I  was  roused  by 
a  shake  on  my  shoulder.  The  room  was  pitch  dark,  and  I  felt 
a  hand  suddenly  clapped  over  my  mouth.  Then  a  strong  smell 
of  whisky  and  tobacco  saluted  my  nostrils,  and  a  whisper  stole 
into  my  ear: 

"  William  we  have  got  to  the  end  of  our  journey." 

"Mr.  Dark,"  I  stammered  out,  "is  that  you?  What,  in 
Heaven's  name,  do  you  mean  ?" 

"The  yacht  put  in  here,"  was  the  answer,  still  in  a  whisper, 
."  and  your  blackguard  of  a  master  came  ashore— 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Dark,"  I  broke  in,  "  don't  tell  me  that  the  letter  is 
true!" 

"Every  word  of  it,"  says  he.  "He  was  married  here,  anc 
was  off  again  to  the  Mediterranean  with  number  two  a  goo 
three  weeks  before  we  left  your  mistress'  house.  Hush!  don' 
say  a  word.  Go  to  sleep  again,  or  strike  a  light,  if  you  like  i 
better.  Do  anything  but  come  down-stairs  with  me.  I'm  go 
to  find  out  all  the  particulars  without  seeming  to  want  to  kno\ 
one  of  them.  Yours  is  a  very  good-looking  face,  William,  bn 
it's  so  infernally  honest  that  I  can't  trust  it  in  the  tap-room 
I'm  making  friends  with  the  Scotchmen  already.  They  knov 
my  opinion  of  Arthur's  Seat;  they  see  what  I  think  of  whisky 
and  I  rather  think  it  won't  be  long  befors  they  hear  that  nr 
mother's  maiden  name  was  Macleod." 

With  those  words  he  slipped  out  of  the  room,  and  left  me  a 
he  had  found  me,  in  the  dark. 

I  was  far  too  much  agitated  by  what  I  had  heard  to  think  c 
going  to  sleep  again,  so  I  struck  a  light  and  tried  to  amuse  mj 
self  as  well  as  I  could  with  an  old  newspaper  that  had  bee 
stuffed  into  my  carpet  bag.  It  was  then  nearly  ten  o'clocj 


Til  V    OF    IIKAKTS.  195 

Two  hours  later,  when  the  house  shut  up.  Mr.   Dark  came  back 

ain  in  hi^li  spirits. 

"  J  'ppmtf    i 

-*'  the  whole  <•;  ieat  and  clean  as  if  it  was  drav 

a  brief.      That  master  of  yours  doesn't  .-tick  at  a  I  rifle.   \Vi  ' 
It's  my  opinion  that  your  mistress  andyou  have 
of  him  \ 

\V.  nig  that  night  in  a  douhle-bedded  room. 

soon   as   Mr.   Dark    had   secured  the  door  and  disposed    hii 
comfortably  in  his  bed,  lie  entered  on  a  detaited  narrative  of  the 
particulars  communicated  to  him  in  the  tap-room.     The 
stance  of  what  he  told  may  be  related  as  tollo\\ 

The   yacht    had  had  a  wonderful   run   all   the  way  to  Cape 
Wrath.     On  rounding  that  headland  she  had  met  the  wind  near 
id  against  her,  and  had  beaten  every  inch  of  the  way  to  the 
rt  town,  where  she  had  put  in  to  get  a  supply  of  provisi 
and  to  wait  for  a  change  in  the  wind. 

Mr.  James  Smith  had  gone  ashore  to  look  about  him,  and  to  see 
whether  the  principal  hotel  was  the  sort  of  house  at  which  he 
.vould  lik  p  for  a  few  days.  In  the  course  of  his  wander- 

ng  about  the  town,  his  attention  had  been  attracted  to  a  decent 
.  where  lodgings  were  to  be  let,  by  the  sight  of  a  very 
v  ^irl  sitting  at  work  at  the  parlor  window.     He  was  so 
:k  by  her  face  that  he  came  back  twice  to  look  at  it,  deter- 
mining, the  second  time,  to  try  if  he  could  not  make  acquaint- 
mce  with  her  by  asking  to  see  the  lodgings.     He  was  shown  the. 
rooms  by  the  girl's  mother,  a  very  respectable  woman,  whom  he 
d  to  be  the  wife  of  the  master  and  part  owner  of  a  small 
stin^  vessel,  then  away  at  sea.     With  a  little  maneuvering 
ie  in  to  get  into  the  parlor  where  the  daughter  w 

vork,  and   to  exchange  a  few  words  with  her.     Her  voice   and 
manner  completed  the  attraction  of  her  face.     Mr.  James  Smith 
lecided.  in  his  headlong  way,  that  he  was  violently  in  love  with 
nd.  without  hesitating  another  instant,  he  took  the  lodg- 
n  the  spot  for  a  month  certain. 

i  unnecessary  to  say  that  his  designs  on  the  girl  were  of  the 
disgraceful  kind,  and  that  he  represented   himself  to  the 
mother  and  daughter  as  a  single  man.     Helped  by   his  advan- 
of  money,  position,  and  personal  appearance,  he  had  made 
iiirethat  the  ruin  of  the  uirl   might  be  effected  with  very  little 
lilliculty:  but  he  soon  found  that  he  had  undertaken 
poqui 

mother's    watchfulness   never   slept,  and   the    daugb 

mind    never   failed    her.       She  admired    Mi 
smith's  tall  figure  and    splendid   whiskers;  she  showed  the  : 

raging  partiality  for  his  society ;  she  si  'ipli- 

d   whenever  he  looked  at  her;   but,  whether  it 
mining,  or  whether  it  wasinn<» 

)f  understanding    that    his    advances    toward    I  any 

than  an  honorable  kind.     At  the  slightest  approach  to  tin- 

iliarity.  she  drew    back    with    a   kind    of   contemptuous 

iiirprise  in  )•  which   utterly  j  I    Mr.  James  Smith. 

id  not  calculated   on  that  nd  he  could 


196  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

not  see  his  way  to  overcoming  it.  The  weeks  passed:  the  month 
for  which  he  had  taken  the  lodgings  expired.  Time  had 
strengthened  the  girl's  hold  on  him  till  his  admiration  for  her 
amounted  to  downright  infatuation,  and  he  had  not  advanced 
one  step  yet  toward  the  fulfillment  of  the  vicious  purpose  with 
which  he  had  entered  the  house. 

At  this  time  he'must  have  made  some  fresh  attempt  on  the  girl's 
virtue,  which  produced  a  coolness  between  them;  for,  instead  of 
taking  the  lodging^ for  another  term,  he  removed  to  his  yacht  in 
the  harbor,  and  slept  on  board  for  two  nights. 

The  wind  was  now  fair,  and  the  stores  were  on  board,  but  he 
gave  no  orders  to  the  sailing-master  to  weigh  anchor.  On  the 
third  day,  the  cause  of  the  coolness,  whatever  it  was,  appears  to 
have  been  removed,  and  he  returned  to  his  lodgings  on  shore. 
Some  of  the  more  inquisitive  among  the  townspeople  observed 
soon  afterward,  when  they  met  him  in  the  street,  that  he  looked 
rather  anxious  and  uneasy.  The  conclusion  had  probably  forced 
itself  upon  his  mind,  by  this  time,  that  he  must  decide  on  pur- 
suing one  of  two  courses:  either  he  must  resolve  to  make  the 
sacrifice  of  leaving  the  girl  altogether,  or  he  must  commit  the 
villainy  of  marrying  her. 

Scoundrel,  as  he  was,  he  hesitated  at  encountering  the  risk — 
perhaps,  also,  at  being  guilty  of  the  crime — involved  in  this  last 
alternative.  While  he  was  still  in  doubt,  the  father's  coasting 
vessel  sailed  into  the  harbor,  and  the  father's  presence  on  the 
scene  decided  him  at  last.  How  this  new  influence  acted  it  was 
impossible  to  find  out  from  the  imperfect  evidence  of  persons 
who  were  not  admitted  to  the  family  councils.  The  fact,  how- 
ever, was  certain,  that  the  date  of  the  father's  return  and  the 
date  of  Mr.  James  Smith's  first  wicked  resolution  to  marry  the 
girl  might  both  be  fixed,  as  nearly  as.  possible,  at  one  and  the 
same  time. 

Having  once  made  up  his  mind  to  the  commission  of  the  crime, 
he  proceeded,  with  all  possible  coolness  and  cunning,  to  provide 
against  the  chances  of  detection. 

Returning  on  board  his  yacht,  he  announced  that  he  had  given 
up  his  intention  of  cruising  to  Sweden,  and  that  he  intended  to 
amuse  himself  by  along  fishing  tour  in  Scotland.  After  this 
explanation,  he  ordered  the  vessel  to  be  laid  up  in  the  harbor, 
gave  the  sailing-master  leave  of  absence  to  return  to  his  family 
at  Cowes,  and  paid  off  the  whole  of  the  crew,  from  the  mate  to 
the  cabin-boy.  By  these  means  he  cleared  the  scene,  at  one 
blow,  of  the  only  people  in  the  town  who  knew  of  the  existence 
of  his  unhappy  wife.  After  that,  the  news  of  his  approaching 
marriage  might  be  made  public  without  risk  of  discovery,  his 
own  common  name  being  of  itself  a  sufficient  protection  in  case 
the  event  was  mentioned  in  the  Scotch  newspapers.  All  ME 
friends,  even  his  wife  herself,  might. read  a  report  of  the  mar- 
riage of  Mr.  James  Smith  without  having  the  slightest  suspicior 
of  wbo  the  bridegroom  really  was. 

A  fortnight  after  the  paying  off  of  the  crew  he  was  marriec 
to  the  merchant-captain's  daughter.  The  father  of  the  girl  \va: 
well  known  among  his  fellow-townsmen  as  a  selfish,  grasping 


STJH  '/•'    UKAHTS.  197 

who   \v  ii.vious  to  seruiv  a  ri--h  BOD   in-!;i\v    to  ot 

to  any  proposals  for  hastening  the   mania;: 
and  a  lew  intiiiK!  ,  lia<l  he»  n  pre.-ent  at  the  cereiii 

and.    after    it    had    been    performed,    the    m  wly-m;r  uple. 

left    tlie  town  at  once   for  a  honeymoon  trip  to  the  High 
lakes. 

Two   days   later,   however,  they  unexpectedly  returned,  an- 
nouncing a  complete  change  in  their  plans.     The  t.n 
(thinking,  prohahly,  that  he  would  be  safer  out  of  England  than 
m  it)  had   heen  pleasing  tin?  bride's  fancy  by  his  descriptio: 

uid   the  scenery  of  southern  parts.     The   new  Mrs. 

James  Smith  was  all  curiosity  to  see  Spain  and  Italy;  and,  hav- 

•I'tfii  proved  herself  an  excellent  sailor  on  board  her  father's 

1.  was  anxious  to  go  to  the  Mediterranean  in  the  easiest  way 

t.  Her  atlectioiiate  husband,  having  now  no  other  object 
in  life  than  to  gratify  her  wishes,  had  given  up  the  Highland  ex- 
cursion, and  had  returned  to  have  his  yacht  got  ready  for  sea 
immediately.  In  this  explanation  there  was  nothing  to  awaken 
•ispicions  of  the  lady's  parents.  The  mother  thought  Mr. 
James  Smith  a  model  bridegroom.  The  father  lent  his  assistance 
to  man  the  yacht  at  the  shortest  notice  with  as  smart  a  crew  as 
could  be  picked  up  about  the  town.  Principally  through  his  ex- 
ertions, the  vessel  was  got  ready  for  sea  with  extraordinary  dis- 
patch. The  sails  were  bent,  the  provisions  were  put  on  board, 
and  Mr.  James  Smith  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean  with  the  un- 
fortunate woman  who  believed  herself  to  be  his  wife  before  Mr. 
Dark  and  myself  set  forth  to  look  after  him  from  Darrock  Hall. 
Such  was  the  true  account  of  my  master's  infamous  conduct 
in  Scotland  as  it  was  related  to  me.  In  concluding,  Mr.  Dark 
hinted  that  he  had  something  still  left  to  tell  me,  but  declared 
that  he  was  too  sleepy  to  talk  any  more  that  night.  As  soon  as 
we  were  awake  the  next  morning  he  returned  to  the  subject. 
••  I  didn't  finish  all  I  had  to  say  last  night,  did  I  'f  he  began. 

ou  unfortunately  told  me  enough,  and  more  than  enough, 
to  prove  the  truth  of  the  statement  in  the  anonymous  letter, '  I 

d. 

"Yes,"  says  Mr.  Dark,  "but  did  I  tell  you  who  wrote  the 
anonymous  letter?" 

'ii  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  have  found  that  out!"  sa 
"I   think  I  have."   was   the  cool  answer.      "When  I  1 
about  your  precious   master  paying  oil   the  regular  crew  of  the 
'.  I   put    the   circumstance  by  in    my    mind,  to  ught 

j;ain  and  sifted   a   little  as  soon  as  the  opportunity  offered. 
It  offered  in  about  half  an  hour.     Saya  I  to  the  ganger,  win 
the  principal    talker  in   the   room,  'How   about    those  men  that 
-mith   paid  off?     J)id   they   all  j  »n  as  t!  their 

ir  did   they  stop  here  till  they  had  farthing 

in  the  public    h'ouses?     The 

••.  in  the   broadest  possible  Scotch    (which  I'll  trans- 

lish.  William,  for  your  hem-tit ):  '  no  such  luck:  they 

all  went  south,  to  spend  their  money  among  finer  people  than  us 

—all,  that  is  ;  with   oi  thought   the 

ird  of  1  lit  hud  gone  along  with   tin  hen,  the 


Id8  THE    QUEEN  ,  OF    HEARTS. 

very  day  Mr.  Smith  sailed  for  the  Mediterranean,  who  should 
turn  up  unexpectedly  but  the  steward  himself!  Where  he  had 
been  hiding,  and  why  he  had  been  hiding,  nobody  could  tell.' 
'  Perhaps  he  had  been  imitating  his  master,  and  looking  out  for 
a  wife,'  says  I.  '  Likely  enough,'  says  the  gauger;  '  he  gave  a 
very  confused  account  of  himself,  and  he  cut  all  questions  short 
by  going  away  south  in  a  violent  hurry.'  That  was  enough  for 
me;  I  let  the  subject  drop.  Clear  as  daylight,  isn't  it,  William? 
The  steward  suspected  something  wrong — the  steward  waited 
arid  watched — the  steward  wrote  that  anonymous  letter  to  your 
mistress.  We  can  find  him,  if  we  want  him,  by  inquiring  at 
Cowes:  and  we  can  send  to  the  church  for  legal  evidence  of  the 
marriage  as  soon  as  we  are  instructed  to  do  so.  All  that  we 
have  got  to  do  now  is  to  go  back  to  you  mistress,  and  see  what 
course  she  means  to  take  under  the  circumstances.  It's  a  pretty 
case,  William,  so  far— an  uncommonly  pretty  case,  as  it  stands, 
at  present." 

We  returned  to  Darrock  Hall  as  fast  as  coaches  and  post- 
horses  could  carry  us. 

Having  from  the  first  believed  that  the  statement  in  the  anony- 
mous letter  was  true,  my  mistress  received  the  bad  news  we 
brought  calmly  and  resignedly— so  far.  at  least,  as  outward  ap- 
pearances went.     She  astonished  and  disappointed  Mr.  Dark  by; 
declining  to  act  in  any  way  on  the  information  that  he  had  col-' 
lected  for  her,  and  by  insisting  that  the  whole  affair  should  still 
be  buried  in  the  profoundest  secrecy.     For  the  first  time  since  l! 
had  known  my   traveling  companion,  he  became  depressed  in 
spirits   on  hearing  that  nothing  more   was  to  be    done,  and, 
although  he  left  the  Hall  with  a  handsome  present,  he  left  it 
discon  tentedly . 

"Such  a  pretty  case,  William,"  says  he,  quite  sorrowfully,  as 
we  shook  hands — "such  an  uncommonly  pretty  case — it's  a 
thousand  pities  to  stop  it,  in  this  way,  before  it's  half  over!" 

"  You  don't  know  what  a  proud  lady  and  what  a  delicate  lady 
my  mistress  is,"  I  answered.  "She  would  die  rather  than  ex- 
pose her  forlorn  situation  in  a  public  court  for  the  sake  of  pun- 
ishing her  husband." 

"Bless  your  simple  heart!"  says  Mr.  Dark,  "do  you  reallyj 
think,  now,  that  such  a  case  as  this  can  be  hushed  up  ?" 

"  Why  not,"  I  asked,  "  if  we  all  keep  the  secret?" 

"That  for  the  secret!"  cries  Mr.  Dark,  snapping  his  fingers.) 
"Your  master  will  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  if  nobody  elstj 
does.*' 

"  My  master!"  I  repeated,  in  amazement. 

"Yes,  your  master!' says  Mr.  Dark.  "  I  have  had  some  (fl 
perience  in  my  time,  and  I  say  you  have  not  seen  the  last  of  hin 
yet.  Mark  my  words,  William,  Mr.  James  Smith  will  conn 
back." 

"  With  that  prophecy,  Mr.  Dark  fretfully  treated  himself  tos 
last  pinch  of  snuff,  and  departed  in  dudgeon  on  his  journe; 
back  to  his  master  in  London.  His  last  words  hung  heavily  o 
mind  for  days  after  he  had  gone.  It  was  some  weeks  befoj 


7V/  KEN    OF    HI  193 

I  got  over  a  habit   of  starting   whenever   the    bell  was  rung 

:it  the  front  door. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OUR  life  at  the  Hall  soon  returned  to  its  old,  dreary  course. 
The  la\vyer  in  London  wrote  to  my  mistress  to  ask  her  to  come 
and  stay  for  a  little  while,  with  his  wife:  but  she  declined   i 
invitation,  bein^  averse  to  facing  company  after  what  had  hap 

«'d  to  her.     Though  she  tried  hard  to  keep  the  real  state  of 
her  mind  concealed   from  all  about   her,  I,  for  one,  could 
plainly  enough  that  she  was  pining  under  the  bitter  injury  that 
hud  been  inflicted  on  her.     What  effect  continued  solitude  might 
have  had  on  her  spirits  I  tremble  to  think. 

innately  for   herself,   it   occurred   to  her,  before  lonj.- 
send  and  invite  Mr.  Meeke  to  resume  his  musical  practicing  witli 
her  at  the  Hall.     She   told    him — and,  as  it  seemed  to  me.  with 
perfect  truth — that  any  implied  engagement  which  he  had  made 
with  Mr.  James  Smith   was  now  canceled,  since  the  person 
named    had  morally  forfeited  all  claims  as  a  husband,  first,  by 
his  desertion  of   her,  and,  secondly,  by  his   criminal   marri; 
with  another  woman.     After  stating  this  view  of  the  matter,  she 
left  it  to  Mr.  Meeke  to  decide  whether  the   perfectly  innocent 
connection   between  them  should  be  resumed  or  not.     The  little 
parson,  after  hesitating  and  pondering  in  his  helpless  way,  ended 

agreeing  with  my  mistress,  and  by  coming  back  once  more 
to  the  Hall  with  his  fiddle  under  his  arm.  This  renewal  of  their 
old  habits  might  have  been  imprudent  enough,  as  tending  to 

aken  my  mistress'  case  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  but,  for  all 

i  it  was  the  most  sensible  course  she  could  take  for  her  own 
xe.     The  harmless  company  of  Mr.  Meeke,  and  the  relief  of 

E  laying  the  old  times  again  iti  the  old  way.  saved  her,  I  verily 
:  rom    sinking  altogether  under  the  oppression  of  the 
shocking  situation  in  which  she  was  now  placed. 

So,  with  the  assistance  of  Mr.  Meeke  and  his  fiddle,  my  mis- 
IP  through    the   weary   time.     The   winter   passed,    the 

••ing  came,  and   no   fresh    tidings   reached   us   of   Mr.  James 

lith.  It  had  been  a  lou^;,  bard  winter  that  year,  and  the 
spring  was  backward  and  rainy.  The  first  really  fine  day  we 
had  was  the  day  that  fell  on  the  fourteenth  of  March. 

I  am  particular  in  mentioning  this  date  merely  because  it  is 
fixed  forever  in  my  memory.  As  long  as  there  is  life  in  n, 

ill  remember  that  fourteenth  of  March,  and  the  smallest  cir- 
cumstan«-es  connected  with  it. 

The  day  be^an  ill,  with  what  superstitious  people  would  think 
a  bad  omen.  My  mi>  named  late  in  her  room  in  the 

morning,  amused  herself  by  lookin^over  her  clothes,  and  by 
ting  to  rights  some  drawers  in  her   cabinet    which   ««he  bad 
opened  for  some  time  past.     Just  before  luncheon  we  irt- 

;  by   hearing  the  drawing-room  hell  nmi;  violently.      1    ran  up 
see  what    was  the  matter,  and  the  <|iiadroon.  .Joseph!: 
had  heard  the  bell  in  another  part  of  the  house,  lias'  :m- 


200  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

swer  it  also.  She  got  into  the  drawing-room  first,  and  I  followed 
close  on  her  heels.  My  mistress  was  standing  alone  on  the 
hearth-rug,  with  an  appearance  of  great  discomposure  in  her 
face  and  manner. 

"I  have  been  robbed !"  she  said  vehemently,  "I  don't  know- 
when  or  how;  but  I  miss  a  pair  of  bracelets,  three  rings,  and  a 
quantity  of  old-fashioned  lace  pocket-handkerchiefs.'' 

"  If  you  have  any  suspicions,  ma'am,"  said  Josephine,  in  a 
sharp,  sudden  way,  "say  who  they  point  at.  My  boxes,  for 
one,  are  quite  at  your  disposal." 

"Who  asked  about  your  boxes?"  said  my  mistress,  angrily. 
"  Be  a  little  less  ready  with  your  answer,  if  you  please,  the  next 
time  I  speak." 

She  then  turned  to  me,  and  began  explaining  the  circum- 
stances under  which  she  had  discovered  her  loss.  I  suggested 
that  the  missing  things  should  be  well  searched  for  first,  and 
then,  if  nothing  came  of  that,  that  I  should  go  for  the  constable 
and  place  the  matter  under  his  direction. 

My  mistress  agreed  to  this  plan,  and  the  search  was  under- 
taken immediately.  It  lasted  till  dinner-time,  and  led  to  no  re- 
sults. I  then  proposed  going  for  the  constable.  But  my  mis- 
tress said  it  was  too  late  to  do  anything  that  day,  and  told  me 
to  wait  at  table  as  usual,  and  to  go  on  my  errand  the  first  thing 
the  next  morning.  Mr.  Meeke  was  coming  with  some  new  mu- 
sic in  the  evening,  and  I  suspect  she  was  not  willing  to  be  dis- 
turbed at  her  favorite  occupation  by  the  arrival  of  the  constable. 

When  dinner  was  over  the  parson  came,  and  the  concert  went 
on  as  usual  through  the  evening.  At  ten  o'clock  I  took  up  the 
tray,  with  the  wine,  and  soda-water,  and  biscuits.  Just  as  I  was 
opening  one  of  the  bottles  of  soda-water,  there  was  a  sound  of 
wheels  on  the  drive  outside,  and  a  ring  at  the  bell. 

I  had  unfastened  the  wires  of  the  cork,  and  could  not  put  the 
bottle  down  to  run  at  once  to  the  door.  One  of  the  female  serv- 
ants answered  it.  I  heard  a  sort  of  half  scream — then  the  sound 
of  a  footstep  that  was  familiar  to  me. 

My  mistress  turned  round  from  the  piano,  and  looked  me  hard 
in  the  face. 

"  William,"  she  said,  "do  you  know  that  step?" 

Before  I  could  answer  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and  Mr. 
James  Smith  walked  into  the  room. 

He  had  his  hat  on.  His  long  hair  flowed  down  under  it  over 
the  collar  of  his  coat;  his  bright  black  eyes,  after  resting  an  in- 
stant on  my  mistress,  turned  to  Mr.  Meeke.  His  heavy  eyebrows 
met  together,  and  one  of  his  hands  went  up  to  one  of  his  bushy 
black  whiskers,  and  pulled  at  it  angrily. 

"  You  here  again!"  he  said,  advancing  a  few  steps  toward  the 
little  parson,  who  sat  trembling  all  over,  with  his  fiddle  hugged 
up  in  his  arms  as  if  it  had  been  a  child. 

Seeing  her  villainous  husband  advance,  my  mistress  moved 
too,  so  as  to  face  him.  He  turned  round  on  her  at  the  first  step 
she  took  as  quick  as  lightning. 

"  You  shameless  woman!"  he  said.     "  Can  you  look  me  in  the 


Til  \KTS.  201 

fa<  f  that  n  lie  poii, 

Mr.  Me< 

My  mistrees  neyer  shrank  when  lio  furncd  upon  her.     v 
sign  of  fear  was  in  her  face  when  they  confronted 
Not    the   faintest    flush   of  anger  came  into  her  cheeks  v 

of  the  insult  and  injury  that  he  had  infli. 
on  her,  and  the  consciousness  of  knowing  his  guilty  - 
h'T  all  her  self- possession  at  that  trying  moment. 

"I  ask  yon  again."  he  repeated,  finding  that  she  did  not 
answer  him.  "  how  dare  you  look  me  in  the  face  in  the  presence 
of  that  man?" 

she  raised  her  steady  eyes  to  his  hat,  which  he  still  kept  on  his 
id. 

"  Who  has  taught  you  to  come  into  a  room  and  speak  to  a 
lady   with    your   hat    on  V"    she    asked,  «n    quiet,   contornptn 
tones.     "  Is  that  a  habit  which  is  sanctioned  by  i/nnr  mir  irifef" 

My  o\es  were  on  him  as  she  said  those  last  words.     His  com- 
plexion,  naturally  dark  and   swarthy,  changed   instantly   t 
livid  yellow  white:  his  hand  caught  at  the  chair  nearest  to  him, 
and  lie  dropped  into  it  heavily. 

"  I  don'l  understand  you,"  he  said,  after  a  moment  of  silenco, 
looking  about  the  room  unsteadily  while  ho  spoke. 

"You  do,"  said  my  mistress.  "Your  tongue  lies,  but  your 
face  .speaks  the  truth." 

He  called  back  his  courage  and  audacity  by  a  desperate  effort, 
and  started  up  from  the  chair  again  with  an  oath. 

The  instant  before  this  happened,  I  thought  I  hoard  the  sound 
of  a  rustling  dross  in  the  passage  outside,  as  if  one  of  the  women 
servants  was  stealing  up  to  listen  outside  the  door.  I  should 
have  gone  at  once  to  see  whether  this  was  the  case  or  not,  but 
my  master  stopped  me  just  after  he  had  risen  from  the  chair. 

ie  bed  made  in  the  Rod  Room,  and  light  a  tire  there 
directly."  lie  said,  with  his  fiercest  look  and  in  his  roughest 
Atones.  "When  1  ring  the  bell  bring  me  a  kettle  of  hoi; 
water  and  a  bottle  of  brandy.  As  for  you."  he  continued,  turn- 
ing toward  Mr.  Meeke,  who  still  sat  pale  and  speechless  with  his 
fiddle  hugged  up  in  his  arms,  M  leave  the  house,  or  you  won't 
find  your  cloth  any  protection  to  you." 

this  insult   the  blood   flew  into  my  mistress' face.     Before 
she  conM  sav  anything,  Mr.  James  Smith  raised  his  ud 

enough  to  drown  h 

"  1  won't  hear  another  word  from  you,"  ho  cried  out.  brutally. 
"  You  have  been  talking  like  a  mad  woman,  and  you  look  Ml 
madwoman.      You  are  out  of  yoi;  .      As  s- 

I'll    have   you   examined    by   the   doctors    to-morrow.      Why  the 
devil   do   \  on    stand   there.  undrel'.'"   I  ng 

round  on  his  heel  to  me.      "  Why  don't  you  obey  my  ord- 

1  looked  at  my  mistress.      If  she  had  d  >  knock 

James  Smith  down,  big  as  he  was.  1   think  at  that   momet 

"  l>o  as  he  tells  you.  William,"  she  /intr  one  of  her 

hands  firmly  over  her  bosom,  as  if  she  \vn 


202  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

the  rising  indignation  in  that  way.  "  This  is  the  last  order  of  his 
giving  that  I  shall  ask  you  to  obey." 

"  Do  you  threaten  me,  you  mad " 

He  finished  the  question  by  a  word  I  shall  not  repeat. 

"  I  tell  you,"  she  answered,  in  clear,  ringing,  resolute  tones, 
"that  you  have  outraged  me  past  all  forgiveness  and  all  endur- 
ance, and  that  you  shall  never  insult  me  again  as  you  have  in- 
sulted me  to-night.'* 

After  saying  those  words  she  fixed  one  steady  look  on  him,  then 
turned  away  and  walked  slowly  to  the  door. 

A  minute  previously  Mr.  Meeke  had  summoned  courage 
enough  to  get  up  and  leave  the  room  quietly.  I  noticed  him 
walking  demurely  away,  close  to  the  wall,  with  his  fiddle  held 
under  one  tail  of  his  long  frock-coat,  as  if  he  was  afraid  that  the 
savage  passions  of  Mr.  Jajpes  Smith  might  be  wreaked  on  that 
unoffending  instrument.  He  got  to  the  door  before  my  mistress. 
As  he  softly  pulled  it  open,  I  fsaw  him  start,  and  the  rustling  of 
the  gown  caught  my  ear  again  from  the  outside. 

My  mistress  followed  him  into  the  passage,  turning,  however, 
in  the  opposite  direction  to  that  taken  by  the  little  parson,  in 
order  to  reach  the  staircase  that  led  to  her  own  room.  I  went 
out  next,  leaving  Mr.  James  Smith  alone. 

I  overtook  Mr.  Meeke  in  the  hall,  and  opened  the  door  for 
him. 

"  I  "beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  I  said,  "  but  did  you  come  upon  any- 
body listening  outside  the  music- room  when  you  left  it  just 
now  ?" 

"  Yes,  "William,"  said  Mr.  Meeke,  hi  a  faint  voice,  "  I  think  it 
was  Josephine;  but  I  was  so  dreadfully  agitated  that  I  can't  be 
quite  certain  about  it." 

Had  she  surprised  our  secret  ?  That  was  the  question  I  asked 
myself  as  I  went  away  to  light  the  fire  in  the  Red  Room.  Call- 
ing to  mind  the  exact  time  at  which  I  had  first  detected  the 
rustling  outside  the  door,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had 
only  heard  the  last  part  of  the  quarrel  between  my  mistress  and 
her  rascal  of  a  husband.  Those  bold  words  about  the  "new 
wife  "  had  been  assuredly  spoken  before  I  heard  Josephine  steal- 
ing up  to  the  door. 

As  soon  as  the  fire  was  alight,  and  the  bed  made,  I  went 
back  to  the  music-room  to  announce  that  my  orders  had  been 
obeyed.  Mr.  James  Smith  was  walking  up  and  down  in  a  per- 
turbed way,  still  keeping  his  hat  on.  He  followed  me  to  the 
Red  Room  without  saying  a  word. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  rang  for  the  kettle  and  the  bottle  of 
brandy.  When  I  took  them  in  I  found  him  unpacking  a  small 
carpet- bag,  which  was  the  only  luggage  he  had  brought  with 
him.  He  still  kept  silence,  and  did  not  appear  to  take  any  no- 
tice of  me.  I  left  him  immediately  without 'our  having  so  much 
as  exchanged  a  single  word . 

So  far  as  I  could  tell,  the  night  passed  quietly. 

The  next  morning  I  heard  that  my  mistress  was  suffering  so 
severely  from  a  nervous  attack  that  she  was  unable  to  rise  from 


T8. 

her  bed.    It  was  no  in  be  told  that,  knowing  as  I  did 

what  she  I, 

<>ut  nine  o'clock   I   went  with   some   hot  v. 

.Vfter  knocking  twice  ]  tried   the  d«».i  Aiding  it 

it  in  with  the  jug  in  my  hand. 

I  1.  bed — I  looked  all  around  the  r<>oin.     Not  a 

of  Mr.  J  nith  was  to  he  seen  anywh- 

Judging  by  appearances,  the  lied  had  certainly  be. 
Tim  the    counterpane    lay  the  nigQt~gown   he  hud 

worn.     I  took  it  up  and  saw  some  spots  on  it.     I  looked  at  them 
a  little  clo-er.    They  were  spots  of  blood. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  first  amazement  and  alarm  produced  by  Ibis  di 
deprived  me  of  my  presence  of  mind.    Without  (Stopping  to  think 
what  I  ought  to  do  first.  I  ran  back  to  the  servants'  hall,  calling 
out  that  something  had  happened  to  my  mast < 

All  the  household   hurried   directly  into  the  Red  Room,  Jose- 
phine among  the  rest.     I  was  first  brought  to  my  senses,  as  it 
were,  by  observing  the  strange  expression  of  1 
when  she  saw  the  bedgown  and  the  empty  room.     All  i 
servants  were  bewildered  and  frightened.     She  alone,  after  giv- 
ing a  little  start,  recovered  herself  directly.     A  look  of  de\ 
satisfaction  broke  out  on  her  face,  and  she  left  the  room  quickly 
and  quietly,  without  exchanging  a  word  with  any  of  us.     ] 
this,  and  it  aroused  my  suspicions.   There  is  no  need  to  mention 
what  they  were,  for,  as  events  soon  showed,  they  were  ent 
wide  of  the  mark. 

Having  come  to  myself  a  little,  I  sent  them  all  out  of  the 
room  except  the  coachman.     We  two  then  examined  the  j 

The  Red  Room  was  usually  occupied  by  visitors.     It  wa 
(lie  ground   floor,  and  looked  out  into  the  garden.     We   f 
the  window-shutters,  which  I  had  barred  over  night.  < 
the  window  itself  was  down.    The  tiro  had  been  out  Ion. 
for  the  grate  to  be  quite  cold.     Half  the  bottle  of  brnmh 

drunk.     The  carpet-bag  was  gone.     There  wen-  no  marks 
of  violence  or  struggling  anywhere  about  the  bed  or  the  room, 
xamined  every  corner  carefully,  but  made  no  othe 
than  these. 

When  I  returned  to  the  servants'  hall,  bad  news  of  my  mis- 
tress was  awaiting  me  there.     The  unusual  noise  and  c 
in  the  house  bad    reached   her  ears,  and  she  had   been    told 
had  happened  without .sufficient  caution  being  • 
paring  her  to  hear  it.      In  her  weak,  nervoi: 

the   intelligence  had  quite  pro-trated  her.     Sl.e  h;,d  fall*  n  into  a 
swoon,  and  had  been  brought  back  to  1  3  with  l- 

itHculty.     As  to  giving  me  or  anyb 

to  do  under  1he  embarrassing  circumstances  which    I 
occurred,  she  was  totally  incapable  of  the  effort. 

1  waited  till  the  middle  of  the  day,  in  the  hope  that  she  in 
irong  enough  to  give  her  orders,  but  no  message  came 


204  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

her.  At  last  I  resolved  to  send  and  ask  her  -what  she  thought  it 
best  to  do.  Josephine  was  the  proper  person  to  go  on  this  errand ; 
but  when  I  asked  for  Josephine,  she  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 
The  housemaid,  who  had  searched  for  her  ineffectually,  brought 
word  that  her  bonnet  and  shawl  were  not  hanging  in  their  usual 
places.  The  parlor  rnaid,  who  had  been  in  attendance  in  my 
mistress'  room,  came  down  while  we  were  all  aghast  at  this  new 
disappearance.  She  could  only  tell  us  that  Josephine  had  begged 
her  to  do  lady's-maid's  duty  that  morning,  as  she  was  not  well. 
Not  well!  And  the  first  result  of  her  illness  appeared  to  be  that 
she  had  left  the  house! 

I  cautioned  the  servants  on  no  account  to  mention  this  cir- 
cumstance to  my  mistress,  and  then  went  up-stairs  myself  to 
knock  at  her  door.  My  object  was  to  ask  if  I  might  count  on 
her  approval  if  I  wrote  in  her  name  to  the  lawyer  in  London, 
and  if  I  afterward  went  and  gave  information  of  whjit  had  oc- 
curred to  the  nearest  justice  of  the  peace.  I  might  have  sent  to 
make  this  inquiry  through  one  of  the  female  servants;  but  by  this 
time,  though  not  naturally  suspicious,  I  had  got  to  distrust  every- 
body in  the  house,  whether  they  deserved  it  or  not. 

So  I  asked  the  question  myself,  standing  outside  the  door. 
My  mistress  thanked  me  in  a  faint  voice,  and  begged  me  to  do 
what  I  had  proposed  immediately. 

I  went  into  my  own  bedroom  and  wrote  to  the  lawyer,  merely 
telling  him  that  Mr.  James  Smith  had  appeared  unexpectedly  at 
the  Hall,  and  that  events  had  occurred  in  consequence  which 
required  his  immediate  presence.  I  made  the  letter  up  like  a 
parcel,  and  sent  the  coachman  with  it  to  catch  the  mail  on  its 
way  through  to  London. 

The  next  thing  was  to  go  the  justice  of  the  peace.  The  nearest 
lived  about  five  miles  off,  and  was  well  acquainted  with  my 
mistress.  He  was  an  old  bachelor,  and  he  kept  house  with  his 
brother,  who  was  a  widower.  The  two  were  much  respected 
and  beloved  in  the  county,  being  kind,  unaffected  gentlemen, 
who  did  a  great  deal  of  good  among  the  poor.  The  justice  was 
Mr.  Robert  Nicholson,  and  his  brother,  the  widower,  was  Mr. 
Philip. 

I  had  got  my  hat  on,  and  was  asking  the  groom  which  horse  I 
had  better  take,  when  an  open  carriage  drove  up  to  the  house. 
It  contained  Mr.  Philip  Nicholson  and  two  persons  in  plain 
clothes,  not  exactly  servants  and  not  exactly  gentlemen,  as  far 
as  I  could  judge.  Mr.  Philip  looked  at  me,  when  I  touched  my 
hat  to  him,  in  a  very  grave,  downcast  way,  and  asked  for  my 
mistress.  I  told  him  she  was  ill  in  bed.  He  shook  his  head  at 
hearing  that,  and  said  he  wished  to  speak  to  me  in  private.  I 
showed  him  into  the  library.  One  of  the  men  in  plain  .clothes 
followed  us,  and  sat  in  the  hall.  The  other  waited  with  the 
carriage. 

"  I  was  just  going  out,  sir,"  I  said,  as  I  set  a  chair  for  him, 
"  to  speak  to  Mr.  Robert  Nicholson  about  a  very  extraordinary 
circumstance " 

"1  know  what  you  refer  to,"  said  Mr.  Philip,  cutting  me  short 
rather  abruptly ;  "  and  I  must  beg,  for  reasons  which  will  presently 


77  / 

u  ill  tir  -iii-iit  of  'intil 

,-ird  \vh:it  1  ha\« 

iid.  \viii- 

Hi 

I  1  felr  that  1  was  turnr 
our  master.  Mr.  James  Smith,"  he  went  on.  "came 

Ming,  and  slept    in    this   liousn    last 
nielli.      Before  be  retired  to  rest,  he  and  your  mistress  had  hitfh 

which  ended,  1  mil  sorry  to  hear,  in  a  thn  . 
lure  addressed   by  Mrs.  James  Smith    to    her    hus- 
band.   They  slept  in  separate  rooms.    This moriiing  y<.n  went 
vour  master's  room  and  saw  no  sign  of  him  there.     You 
found  his  iiiu'lit  uown  on  the  bed.  spotted  with  Mood." 

id,  in  as  steady  a  voice  as,  I  could  command. 

I    am  not   examining  you,"  said  Mr.    Philip.  '  vl  I   am    only 
making  a  certain  Statement,  the  truth  of  which  you  can  admit 
re  my  brother." 
mr  brother,  sir!"1  I  repeated.     "  Am  I  suspected  of 

anything  wrong  r" 

••'1  ;  suspicion  that  Mr.   Jnmos  Smith   has  been  mur- 

deu-d,"  \\ ,-!-  the  answer  I  received  to  that  question. 

ilesh  began  to  creep  all  over  from  head  to  foot. 
"  1  am  -hocked— I  am   horrified    to   say,"  Mr.  Philip  went  on, 
'•  that  the  suspicion  affects  your  mistress  in  the  tir.-t   {'lace,  and 

ad." 

I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  what  I  felt  when  he  said  that. 
-•rds  of  mine,  no  words  of  anybody's,  could  give  an  id. 

her  men  would  have  done  in  my  situation  I  don't 
know.  1  stood  before  Mr.  Philip,  staring  straight  at  him,  with- 
out speaking,  without  moving,  almost  without  breathing.  If  he 
or  any  other  man  had  struck  me  at  that  moment,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve'l  should  have  felt  the  blow. 

••>th  my  brother  and   myself,"  said  Mr.  Philip,  "have  such 
nnfe  ped  f<>r  your  mistress,  such  sympathy  for  her  under 

frightful  circuni  lances,  and  such  an  implicit  belief  in  her 
capability  of  proving  her  innocence,    that    we  are    desirous  of 
sparing  Tier  in  this  dreadful  emergency  as  much  as  possible. 
those  ,  I  have  undertaken  to  come  here  with   the  per 

appointed  to  execute  my  brother's  warrant " 

"  Warrant,  sir!"  1    said.  jj.e!t:n.ur  command   of   my  voice  a 
pro-  that  word— **  a  warrant  against  my  ml 

Lgainet  her  and  againsl  you."  said  Mr.  Philip. 

ircums:  >rn   to   hv  a  wit- 

-  d.-elar.-d  on  oath  i  ir   mistr-  .  and 

that  you  are  an  accomp 
11  What  u  itne>-.  sir  V" 
••  Your  mistress'  quadroon  maid,  wh 

this  nn.rninu.  and  who  has  made  1  m." 

••  And  \\  ho   is  iiell."  1  .-ried  01.  -nately. 

.  >rd  slie  t  mv  n: 

••  1  hope — DO,  I  will  JA~'>  further,  ai 


206  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEAR'l 

said  Mr.  Philip.  "But  her  perjury  must  be  proved,  and  the 
necessary  examination  must  take  place.  My  carriage  is  going 
back  to  my  brother's,  and  you  will  go  in  it,  in  charge  of  one  of 
my  men,  who  has  the  warrant  to  take  you  in  custody.  I  shall  re- 
main here  with  the  man  who  is  waiting  in  the  hall;  and,  before 
any  steps  are  taken  to  execute  the  other  warrant,  I  shall  send 
for  the  doctor  to  ascertain  when  your  mistress  can  be  removed." 

"Oh,  my  poor  mistress!"  I  said,  "this  will  be  the  death  of 
her,  sir." 

"  I  will  take  care  that  the  shock  shall  strike  her  as  tenderly 
as  possible,"  said  Mr.  Philip.  "  I  am  here  for  that  express  pur- 
pose. She  has  my  deepest  sympathy  and  respect,  and  shall  have 
every  help  and  alleviation  that  I  can  afford  her." 

The  hearing  him  say  that,  and  the  seeing  how  sincerely  he 
meant  what  he  said,  was  the  first  gleam  of  comfort  in  the 
dreadful  affliction  that  had  befallen  us.  I  felt  this;  I  felt  a 
burning  anger  against  the  wretch  who  had  done  her  best  to  ruin 
my  mistress*  fair  name  and  mine,  but  in  every  other  respect  I 
was  like  a  man  who  had  been  stunned,  and  whose  faculties  had 
not  perfectly  recovered  from,  the  shock.  Mr.  Philip  was  obliged 
to  remind  me  that  time  was  of  importance,  and  that  I  had  better 
give  myself  up  immediately,  on  the  merciful  terms  which  his  kind- 
ness offered  to  me.  I  acknowledged  that,  and  wished  him  good- 
morning.  But  a  mist  seemed  to  come  over  my  eyes  as  I  turned 
round  to  go  away — a  mist  that  prevented  me  from  finding  my 
way  to  the  door.  Mr.  Philip  opened  it  for  me,  and  said  a  friendly 
word  or  two  which  I  could  hardly  hear.  The  man  outside  took 
me  to  his  companion  in  the  carriage  at  the  door,  and  I  was 
driven  away,  a  prisoner  for  the  first  time  in  my  life. 

On  our  way  to  the  justice's  what  little  thinking  faculty  I  had 
left  in  me  was  all  occupied  in  the  attempt  to  trace  a  motive  for 
the  inconceivable  treachery  and  falsehood  of  which  Josephine 
had  been  guilty. 

Her  words,  her  looks,  and  her  manner,  on  that  unfortunate 
day  when  my  mistress  so  far  forgot  herself  as  to  strike  her, 
came  back  dimly  to  my  memory,  and  led  to  the  inference  that 
part  of  the  motive,  at  least,  of  which  I  was  in  search  might  be 
referred  to  what  ha'd  happened  on  that  occasion.  But  was 
this  the  only  reason  for  her  devilish  vengeance  against  my 
mistress?  And,  even  if  it  were  so;  what  fancied  injuries  had  I 
done  her?  Why  should  I  be  included  in  the  false  accusation? 
In  the  dazed  state  of  my  faculties  at  that  time  I  was  quite  in- 
capable of  seeking  the  answer  to  these  questions.  My  mind  was 
clouded  all  over,  and  I  gave  up  the  attempt  to  clear  it  in  despair. 

I  was  brought  Mr.  Robert  Nicholson  that  day,  and  the  fiend 
of  a  quadroon  was  examined  in  my  presence.  The  first  sight  of 
her  face,  with  its  wicked  self-possession,  with  its  smooth,  leering 
triumph,  so  sickened  me  that  I  turned  my  head  away  and  never 
looked  at  her  a  second  time  throughout  the  proceedings.  The 
answers  she  gave  amounted  to  a  mere  repetition  of  the  deposi- 
tion to  which  she  had  already  sworn.  I  listened  to  her  with  the 
niost  breathless  attention,  and  was  thunderstruck  at  the  incon- 


7V <  207 

hlo  artfulness  with    which    sin-   had    mixed   up    truth  and 
falsehood  in  her  eh  t  my  mi 

Tin 

After  describing  the   manner  of  Mr.  Jamea  Smitl  il  at 

the   Hall,  the  wr  >sephine  Durand,  confe.-M-d  that  she  had 

been  led  t<>  listen    at    the    music-room    door    l>y    hearing  a- 
.  and  she    then    described    truly    enough   the    I 
(he  altercation  between  husband  and  wife.     Fearing, 
after  this,  that    something   serious  might   happen,  she  had   kept 
•h  in   her  room,  which  was  on  the    same    tloor    as    her   mis- 
.     She   had  heard   her  mistress'  door    open  softly, 
.(iid  two  in   the   morning — had  followed    her  mistress,  who 
carried  a  smaJllamp,  along  the  passage  and  down  the  stairs  into 
the  hall— had  hidden  herself  in  the  porters  chair — had  seen  her 
mistress  take  a  dagger  in  a  green   sheath  from  a  collection   of 
rn  curiosities  kept  in  the  hall — had  followed  her  again  and 

f'tly  enter    the  Red  Room — had  heard   the   h< 
breathing  of  Mr.  James  Smith,  which  gave  token    that    he   was 

ji — had   slipped  into  an  empty  room   next  door  to  the 
Room,  and  had  waited  there  about  a  quarter   of  an  hour,  when 
her  i  came  out  again  with  the  dagger  in   her  hand — had 

followed  her  mistress  again  into  the  hall,  where  she  had  put  the 
•  'I- hack  into  its  place — had  seen  her  mistress  turn  into  a 
side  passage  that  led  to  my  room — had  heard  her  knock  at  my 
door,  nnd  heard  me  answer  and  open  it— had  hidden  again  in 
the  |K>rter's  chair — had,  after  a  while,  seen  me  and  my  mi- 

Aether  into  the  passage  that  led  to  the  Red   Room — had 

iied  us  both    into  the  Red    Room — and  had  then,  through 

>f  being  discovered  and  murdered  herself  if  she  risked  de- 

n  any  longer,  stolen  back  to  her  own  room  for  the  rest  of 

the  night. 

After  deposing  on  oath  to  the  truth  of  these   atrocious  f 
3,  and  declaring,  in  conclusion,  that  Mr.  James  Smith  had 
murdered  by  my  mistress,  and    (hat    T  was  an  acconi] 
the  quadroon   had  further  a  •  in    order   to  show  am 

for  the  crime,  that  Mr.  Meeke  was  my  mistre-s'  lover;  that  he 
had  been  forbidden  the  house  by  her  husband,  and  that  he  was 
found  in  the  house,  and  alone  with  her,  on  the  evening  of  Mr. 

is  Smith's  return.     Here  again  there  were   some  grar 
truth  cunningly  mixed   up   with  a  revolting   lie.  and    they    had 
their  elT«  the  falsehood  a  look  of  probability. 

i  in  the  usual  manner,  and  asked  if   I  had 
thing 

plied  that  I  was  innocent,  but  that  I  would   wait  for  I 

I  defended  myself.     The  justice  remanded  me, 
and  the  examination  wa  lays  later  my  unh 

mistress  was  subjected  to  the  same  trial.      1  was  not 
commun  ith    her.     All  I  knew    was   that   the   lawyer  had 

arrived  from  London  to  help  h--r.  Toward  the  evening  he  was 
admitted  to  see  me.  Me  shook  his  head  sorrowfully 

iy  mist  i 

"Iain  '  he  said.  •*  that  she   has  sunk   under  the  h> 

of   the  situation    in   which    that     vilr    woman 


208  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

Weakened  by  her  previous  agitation,  she  seems  to  have  given 
way  under  this  last  shock,  tenderly  and  carefully  as  Mr.  Philip 
Nicholson  broke  the  bad  news  to  her.  All  her  feelings  appeared 
to  be  strangely  blunted  at  the  examination  to-day.  She  an- 
swered the  questions  put  to  her  quite  correctly,  but  at  the  same 
time,  quite  mechanically,  with  no  change  in  her  complexion, 
or  in  her  tone  of  voice,  or  in  her  manner,  from  beginning  to  end. 
It  is  a  sad  thing,  William,  when  women  cannot  get  their  natural 
vent  of  weeping,  and  your  mistress  has  not  shed  a  tear  since  she 
left  Darrock  Hall." 

'"  But  surely,  sir,"  I  said,  "  if  my  examination  has  not  proved 
Josephine's  perjury,  my  mistress'  examination  must  have  ex- 
posed it  ?" 

"Nothing  will  expose  it,"  answered  the  lawyer,  "but  pro- 
ducing Mr.  James  Smith,  or,  at  least,' legally  proving  that  he  is 
alive.  Morally  speaking,  I  have  rid  doubt  tnat  the  justice  before 
whom  you  have  beeri  examined  is  as  firmly  convinced  as  we  can 
be  that  the  quadroon  has  perjured  herself.  Morally  speaking, 
he  believes  that  those  threats  which  your  mistress  unfortunately 
Used,  referred  (as  she  said  they  did  to-day)  to  her  intention  of 
leaving  the  Hall  early  in  the  morning,  with  you  for  her  attend- 
ant»  and  coming  to  me,  if  she  had  been  well  enough  to  travel,  to 
seek  effectual  legal  protection  frdni  her  husband  for  the  future. 
Mr,  Nicholson  believes  that;  and  I,  who  know  more  of  the  circum- 
stances than  he  does,  believe  also  that  Mr.  James  Smith  stole 
&way  from  Darrock  Hall  in  the  night  under  fear  of  being  indicted 
for  bigamy.  But  if  I  can't  find  him — if  I  can't  prove  him  to  be 
alive — if  I  can't  account  for  those  spots  of  blood  on  the  night 
gown,  the  accidental  circumstances  of  the  case  remain  unex- 
plained— your  mistress'  rash  language,  the  bad  terms  on  which 
she  has  lived  with  her  husband,  and  her  unlucky  disregard  of 
appearances  in  keeping  up  her  intercourse  with  Mr.  Meeke,  all 
tell  dead  against  us— and  the  justice  has  no  alternative  in  a  legal 
point  of  view,  but  to  remand  you  both,  as  he  has  now  done,  for 
the  production  of  further  evidence." 

"But  how,  then,  in  Heaven's  name,  is  our  innocence  to  be 
proved,  sir?"  I  asked. 

"  In  the  first  place,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  by  finding  Mr.  James 
Smith;  and.  in  the  second  place,  by  persuading  him,  when  he  is 
found,  to  come  forward  and  declare  himself." 

"Do  you  really  believe,  sir,"  said  I,  "that  he  would  hesitate 
to  do  that,  when  he  knows  the  horrible  charge  to  which  his  dis- 
appearance has  exposed  his  wife?  He  is  a  heartless  villain,  I 
know;  but  surely 

"I  don't  suppose,"  said  the  lawyer,  cutting  me  short,  "that 
he  is  quite  scoundrel  enough  to  decline  coming  forward,  suppos- 
ing he  ran  no  risk  by  doing  so.  But  remember  that  he  has 
placed  himself  in  a  position  to  be  tried  for  bigamy,  and  that  he 
believes  your  mistress  will  put  the  law  in  force  against  him." 

I  had  forgotten  that  circumstance.  My  heart  sank  within  IMC 
when  it  was  recalled  to  my  memory,  and  I  could  say  nothing 
more. 

"It  is  a  very  serious  thing,"  the  lawyer  went  on— "it  is  a 


THE 

<.v  of  the  land    to   make  any  pri- 
to  this   man.      Kn  A  hat    we 

know,  our  di.  -oil  citi/  udi   in 

bring  him    to   trial.      I   tell   you    plainly  that,   if  I  did   not 

1  your  mistress  in  the  position   <>]'   a    n-l 
as  a  legal  adviser.  I  should  think  twice  about  running  ' 

risk — on  which  1  am  now  about  to  vent  UP 
is,  I  have  taken  tbe  right  me: 

Mr.  James  Smith  that  he  will  not  be  treated  according  to   his 
is.     When  he  knows  what  the  circun  are.  he  will 

trust  as—-6nppoeing  always  that  we  can  tind  him.  The  search 
about  this  neighborhood  has  been  quite  n  I  have 

private  instructions  by  to-day's  post  to  Mr.  Dark  in  London,  and 
with  them  a  carefully  worded  form  of  advertisement  for  the, 
public  newspapers.  You  may  rest  assured  that  every  human 

18  of  tracing   him  will   be  tried    forthwith.     In   the  n 
time,   1    have    an   important   question  to    be    put    to    you    about 

->he  may  know  more  than   we  think  she  < 
may  have  surprised  the  secret  of  the  second  marriage,  and 

epmg  it  in  reserve  to  use  against  ns.  If  this  should  turn 
out  to  l>e  the  east-.  1  shall  want  some  other  chance  against  her 
besides  the  chance  of  indicting  her  for  perjury.  her 

motive  now  for  making   this  horrible  accusation,  what  can 
tell  me  about  that.  William?'' 
"  Her  motive  against  me?" 

"No,  no,  not  against  you.  I  can  see  plainly  enough  that  she 
accuses  yon  because  it  is  necessary  to  do  so  to  add  to  the  prob- 
ability of  her  story,  which,  of  course,  assumes  that  you  helped 
your  mistress  to  dispose  of  the  dead  body.  You  are  coollj 

•d  to  some  devilish  vengeance  against  her  mistro-.      Let   ns 
.  t  that  first.      Has  there  ever  been  a  quarrel  between  th 
I  told  him   of  the  quarrel,  and   of  how  Josephine  had  1<> 
and  talked  when  she  showed  me  her  eh. 

"Yes/'  he  said,  "that  is  a  strong  motive  for  revenge  with  a 
naturally  pitiless,  vindictive  woman.  Hut  is  that  all?  Had 
your  nu  ny  hold  over  her?  Is  there  any  selt'-in; 

mixed  up  along  with  this  motive  of  vengeance?     Think  a   little. 
William.     Has  anything  ever  happened   in   the  house    to 
promise  this  woman,  or  to  make  her  fane  f  compromi 

The  remembrance  of  my  mistres-'  lost  trinkets   and   ban-: 
chiefs,  which  later  and  greater  troubles  had  put  out  of  my  mind, 
flashed  back    into  my  memory  while  he  spoke.     I  told  bin 
mediately  of  the  alarm  in  the  house  when  the  loss  wa 

••d. 

"Did  your  mistress  suspect  Josephine  and  question  her  ?"  he 

rly. 

"No.  sir."  1  replied.      •  i>h- 

ine  impudently  asked  who  9J  vied,  and  bold! 

own  ho\e<  to  IH>  search1 

The  lawyer's    face   turned  red  He  jumped    OU 

his  chair,  and    hit   me  such  a  smack   on   the   shoulder   tl. 
thought  he  had  gone  mad. 


210  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

"By  Jupiter!"  lie  cried  out,  "  we  have  got  the  whip-hand  of 
that  she-devil  at  last!" 

I  looked  at  him  in  astonishment. 

"Why,  man  alive,"  he  said,  "don't  you  see  how  it  is? 
Josephine's  the  thief!  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  that  you  and  I  are 
talking  together.  This  vile  accusation  against  your  mistress 
answers  another  purpose  besides  the  vindictive  one — it  is  the 
very  best  screen  that  the  wretch  could  possibly  set  up  to  hide 
herself  from  detection.  It  has  stopped  your  mistress  and  you 
from  moving  in  the  matter;  it  exhibits  her  in  the  false  character 
of  an  honest  witness  against  a  couple  of  criminals;  it  gives  her 
time  to  dispose  of  the  goods,  or  to  hide  them,  or  to  do  anything 
she  likes  with  them.  Stop!  let  me  be  quite  sure  that  I  know 
what  the  lost  things  are.  A  pair  of  bracelets,  three  rings,  and 
a  lot  of  lace  pocket-handkerchiefs — is  that  what  you  said  ?" 

'"Yes,  sir." 

"Your  mistress  will  describe  them  particularly,  and  I  will 
take  the  right  steps  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning.  Good- 
evening,  William,  and  keep  up  your  spirits.  It  sha'n't  be  nay 
fault  if  you  don't  soon  see  the  quadroon  in  the  right  place  for 
her — at  the  prisoner's  bar." 

With  that  farewell  he  went  out. 

The  days  passed,  and  I  did  not  see  him  again  until  the  period 
of  my  remand  had  expired.  On  this  occasion,  when  I  once  more 
appeared  before  the  justice,  my  mistress  appeared  with  me.  The 
first  sight  of  her  absolutely  startled  me,  she  was  so  sadly  altered. 
Her  face  looked  so  pinched  and  thin  that  it  was  like  the  face  of 
an  old  woman.  The  dull,  vacant  resignation  of  her  expression 
was  something  shocking  to  see.  It  changed  a  little  when  her 
eyes  first  turned  heavily  toward  me,  and  she  whispered,  with  a 
faint  smile,  "  I  am  sorry  for  you,  William — I  am  very,  very  sorry 
for  ?/ow."  But  as  soon  as  she  had  said  those  words  the  blank 
look  returned,  and  she  sat  with  her  head  drooping  forward, 
quiet,  and  inattentive,  and  hopeless — so  changed  a  being  that  her 
oldest  friends  would  hardly  have  known  her. 

Our  examination  was  a  mere  formality.  There  was  no  addi- 
tional evidence  either  for  or  against  us,  and  we  were  remanded 
again  for  another  week. 

I  asked  the  lawyer,  privately,  if  any  chance  had  offered  itself 
of  tracing  Mr.  James  Smith.  He  looked  mysterious,  and  only 
said  in  answer,  "  Hope  for  the  best."  I  inquired  next  if  any 
progress  had  been  made  toward  fixing  the  guilt  of  the  robbery  on 
Josephine. 

"  I  never  boast,"  he  replied.  "  But,  cunning  as  she  is,  I  should 
not  be  surprised  if  Mr.  Dark  and  I  together  turned  out  to  be 
more  than  a  match  for  her." 

Mr.  Dark!  There  was  something  in  the  mere  mention  of  his 
name  that  gave  me  confidence  in  the  future.  If  I  could  only 
have  got  my  poor  mistress'  sad,  dazed  face  out  of  nay  mmd,  I 
should  not  have  had  much  depression  of  spirits  to  complain  of 
during  the  interval  of  time  that  elapsed  between  the  second  ex- 
amination and  the  third. 


Til  HEARTS.  211 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ON  the  thinl  appearance  of  my  mistress  and  myself  before  the 
'•e,  I  noticed  some  faces  in  the  room  which  I  had  not  seen 
.  reatly  to  my  astonishment — for   the   previous 
.iiiations  had  been  conducted  as  privately  as  possible — I  re- 
marked the  \  of  two  of  the  servants  from  the  Hall,  and 
of  three  or  four  of  the  tenants  on  the  Darrock  estate,  who  lived 
>  the  house.     They  all  sat  together  on  one  side  of  thu 
justice-room.     Opposite  to  them,  and  close  at  the  side  of  a  < 

:  my  old  acquaint  a  nee,  Mr.  Dark,  with  his  big  snuff -box,  his 
•jolly  face,   and   his   winking  eye.     He  nodded  to  me,  when  I 
1  at  him,  as  jauntily  a  were  meeting  at  a  party  of 

ure.     The  quadroon  woman,  who  had   been  summoned  to 
the  examination,  had  a  chair  placed  opposite  to  the  witness-box, 
and  in  a  line  with  the  seat  occupied  by  my  poor  mi 
looks,  as  1  was  grieved  to  see,  were  not  altered  for  the  b- 
The  lawyer  from  London  was  with  her,  and  I  stood  behind  her 
chair. 

We  were  all  quietly  disposed  in  the  room  in  this  way,  v 
the  justice,  Mr.  Robert  Nicholson,  came  in  with  his  brother.     It 
might  have  been  only  fancy,  but  I  thought  I  could  see  iu  both 
their  faces  that  something  remarkable  had  happened  sine 
had  met  at  the  last  examination. 

The  deposition  of  Josephine  Durand  was  read  over  by  the 
clerk,  and  she  was  asked  if  she  had  anything  to  add  to  it.  She 
replied  in  the  negative.  The  justice  then  appealed  to  my  mis- 
tress' relation,  the  lawyer,  to  know  if  he  could  produce  any  evi- 

•  •  relating  to  the  charge  against  his  clients. 
••  I  have  evidence,"  answered  the  lawyer,  getting  briskh 
his  legs,  "  which  I  believe,  sir,  will  justify  nie  in  asking  for  their 

disch:i! 

••  Where  are  your  witnesses?"  inquired  the  justice,  IcoK 
hard  at  Josephine  while  he  spoke. 

"One  of  them  is  in  waiting,  your  worship,"   said   Mr.  Dark, 
ing  the  door  near  which  he  was  standing. 

lie  went  out  of  the  room,  remained  away  about  a  nun- 
returned  with  his  witness  at  his  heels. 

My  hea  a  bound  as  if  it  would  jump  out  of  my  1 

.    with    his   long   haircut    short,   and    his  bushy  whi 
shared  off — there,  in  his  own  proper   person,  safe  and   sound  as 
ever,  was  Mr.  James  Smith! 

The    quadroon's   iron   nature   resisted   the 

pected  presence  on  I  with  a  steadiness  that  'liiug 

short  of  marvelous.     Her  thin  lips  closed  to: 
and  there  was  a  slight  movement  iu   the   muscles  of  her  tl 
But    not   a  word,    not   a  siirn   I  r.     Even  th 

tinge  of  her  complexion  remained  uncl 

•iot  nee.  1  should  time  and  v\ 

in  referring  'to  the  wicked  and  pre;  dust   my 

clients,"    said    the    lawyer,    add 
"Th<  .th'cient  justification   for  discharging  then;   inn 


THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

ately  is  before  you  at  this  moment  in  the  person  of  that  gentle- 
man. There,  sir,  stands  the  murdered  Mr.  James  Smith,  of  Dar- 
rock  Hall,  alive  and  well,  to  answer  for  himself." 

"  That  is  not  the  man!"  cried  Josephine,  her  shrill  voice  just  as 
high,  clear,  and  steady  as  ever.  ''I  denounce  that  man  as  an 
impostor.  Of  my  own  knowledge  I  deny  that  he  is  Mr.  James 
Smith." 

"  No  doubt  you  do,"  said  the  lawyer;  "  but  we  will  prove  his 
identity  for  all  that." 

The  first  witness  called  was  Mr.  Philip  Nicholson.  He  couM 
swear  that  he  had  seen  Mr.  James  Smith,  and  had  spoken  to  him. 
at  least  a  dozen  times.  The  person  now  before  him  was  Mr. 
James  Smith,  altered  as  to  personal  appearance  by  having  his 
hair  cut  short  and  his  whiskers  shaved  off,  but  still  unmistak- 
ably the  man  he  assumed  him  to  be. 

"  Conspiracy!"  interrupted  the  prisoner,  hissing  the  word  out 
viciously  between  her  teeth. 

"  If  you  are  not  silent,"  said  Mr.  Robert  Nicholson,  "you  will 
be  removed  from  the  room.  It  will  sooner  meet  the  ends  of 
justice,"  he  went  on,  addressing  the  lawyer,  "  if  you  prove  the 
question  of  identity  by  witnesses  who  have  been  in  habits  of 
daily  communication  with  Mr.  James  Smith/' 

Upon  this,  one  of  the  servants  from  the  Hall  was  placed  in  the 
box. 

The  alteration  in  his  master's  appearance  evidently  puzzled 
the  man.  Besides  the  perplexing  change  already  adverted  to, 
there  was  also  a  change  in  Mr.  James  Smith's  expression  and 
manner.  Rascal  as  he  was,  I  must  do  him  the  justice  to  say 
that  he  looked  startled  and  ashamed  when  he  first  caught  sight 
of  his  unfortunate  wife.  The  servant,  who  was  used  to  be  eyed 
tyrannically  by  him,  and  ordered  about  roughly,  seeing  him  now 
for  the  first  time  abashed  and  silent,  stammered  and  hesitated 
on  being  asked  to  swear  to  his  identity. 

"  I  can  hardly  say  for  certain,  sir,"  said  the  man,  addressing 
the  justice  in  a  bewildered  manner.  "  He  is  like  my  master, 
and  yet  he  isn't.  If  he  wore  whiskers  and  had  his  hair  long, 
and  if  he  was,  saving  your  presence,  sir,  a  little  more  rough  and 
ready  in  his  way,  I  could  swear  to  him  anywhere  with  a  safe 
conscience." 

Fortunately  for  us,  at  this  moment  Mr.  James  Smith's  feeling 
of  uneasiness  at  the  situation  in  which  he  was  placed  changed  to 
a  feeling  of  irritation  at  being  coolly  surveyed  and  then  stupidly 
doubted  in  the  matter  of  his  identity  by  one  of  his  own  servants. 

"  Can't  you  say  in  plain  words,  you  idiot,  whether  you  know 
me  or  whether  you  don't!"  he  called  out  angrily. 

"  That's  his  voice!"  cried  the  servant,  starting  in  the  box. 
"  Whiskers  or  no  whiskers,  that's  him!" 

"If  there  is  any  difficulty,  your  worship,  about  the  gentle- 
man's hair,"  said  Mr.  Dark,  coming  forward  with  a  grin,  "  here's 
a  small  parcel  which,  I  may  make  so  bold  as  to  say,  will  remove 
it."  Saying  that,  he  opened  the  parcel,  took  some  locks  of  hair 
out  of  it,  and  held  them  up  close  to  Mr.  James  Smith's  head. 
"  A  pretty  good  match,  your  worship,"  continued  Mr.  Dark. 


1)1  ' 


"  I  h  doubt  t 

off.  'id.  l)Ut 

the  hair:  and  they  are  in  the  paper  (if  one  may  say  such  at! 

>k  f«ir  1; 

"Lies!  lies!  lit  imed  Josephine,  losing  her  wicked 

control  at  tli  of  the  proceed  ii 

Tin-  justice  made  a  sign  to  two  of  the  constables  pr- 

;    with   those  exclamations,  and  tl 
her  to  an  adjoining  room. 

The  second  servant  from  the  Hall  was  then  put  in  ' 
and  was  followed  by  one  of  the  tenants.  After  what  I 
heard  and  seen,  neither  of  these  men  had  any  hesitation  ; 

ively  to  their  master's  identity. 

"It  is  quite  unnecessary,"  said  the  ju-  the  box 

<  mpty  again,  "to  examine  any   more  o  the 

ion  of  identity       All  the  legal  formaliti  iplished. 

and  the  charge  against  the  prisoners  falls  to  the  ground.     I  have 

plt-asnre  in  ordering  the  immediate  diseh  both  the 

'•il  persons,  and  in  declaring  from  this  place  that  they  leave 

;rt  without  tlie  slightest  stain  on  their  characte: 
He  bowed  low  to  mv  mistress  as  he  said  that,  paused  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  looked  inquiringly  at  Mr.  James  Smith. 

"I  have  hitherto  abstained  from  making  any  remark  uncon- 
nected with  the  immediate  matter  in  hand.''  he  weii  But, 
now  that  my  duty  is  done,  I  cannot  leave  this  chair  without  ex- 

ing  my  strong  sense  of  disapprobation  of  the  condu 
Mr.  James  Smith — conduct  which,  whatever  may  be  the  motives 
that  occasioned  it,  has  given  a  false  color   of  probability  to  a 
horrible  charge  against  a  lady  of  unspotted  reputation,  and 
against  a  person  in  a  lower  rank  of  life  whose  good  char 
ought  not  to  have  l>een  imperiled  even  fora  moment.    Mr.  Smith 
may  or  may  not  choose  to  explain  his  mysterious  disappea' 
from  Darrock  Hall,  and  the  equally  unaccountable  change  which 
he   has  chosen  to  make  in  his  personal  appeaiance.      Tl 

charge  against  him:  but,  speaking  morally.  1  should  he  un- 
iy  of  the  place  1  hold  if  I   hesitated  to  declare  my  pi 
conviction   that    his  conduct  has  been   deceitful,   mcon>id< 
and  unfeeling  in  the  highest  degree." 

To  this  sharp  reprimand  Mr.  James  Smitl  -itly  tut 

-id  as  to  what  he  was  to  say)  replied  that,  in  attending 
re  the  ju-tice.  lie  wished  to  |M>rform  a  plain  dut; 
himsdf   strictly  within  the  letter  of  the   law.     He 
that  the  only  legal  obligation  laid   on  him  A'. 

and    to  enable 

prove  his  identity.     This  duty    accomplished,  he    h. 
add.    that    he    preferred    submr  reprimand  from  the 

•h,  to  entering  into  explanati"1  fi  would    involve   the 

disclosure  of  domestic  cirCUOQSte  unhappy    nature. 

»rief   reply    he  had   nothing  fu  d  he 

ttfully  request  the  justi '  ii-sion  to  \vith<i- 

The   permission    was  accorded.       \ 
r  his  wife,  and  said  • 


214  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

11 1  have  done  you  many  injuries,  but  I  never  intended  this.  I 
am  sorry  for  it.  Have  you  anything  to  say  to  me  before  I  go  ?" 

My  mistress  shuddered  and  hid  her  face.  He  waited  a  mo- 
ment, and  finding  that  she  did  not  answer  him,  bowed  his  head 
politely  and  went  out.  I  did  not  know  it  then,  but  I  had  seen 
him  for  the  last  time. 

After  be  had  gone,  the  lawyer,  addressing  Mr.  Robert  Nichol- 
son, said  that  he  had  an  application  to  make  in  reference  to  the 
woman  Josephine  Durand. 

At  the  mention  of  that  name  my  mistress  hurriedly  whispered 
a  few  words  into  her  relation's  ear.  He  looked  toward  Mr. 
Philip  Nicholson,  who  immediately  advanced,  offered  his  arm  to 
my  mistress,  and  led  her  out.  I  was  about  to  follow,  when  Mr. 
Dark  stopped  me,  and  begged  that  I  would  wait  a  few  minutes 
longer,  in  order  to  give  myself  the  pleasure  of  seeing  "  the  end 
of  the  case." 

In  the  meantime  the  justice  had  pronounced  the  necessary 
order  to  have  the  quadroon  brought  back.  She  came  in,  as  bold 
and  confident  as  ever.  Mr.  Robert  Nicholson  looked  away  from 
her  in  disgust,  and  said  to  the  lawyer: 

"  Your  application  is  to  have  her  committed  for  perjury,  of 
course  ?" 

'•For  perjury?"  said  Josephine,  with  her  wickrd  smile. 
"  Very  good.  I  shall  explain  some  little  matters  that  I  have  not 
explained  before.  You  think  I  am  quite  at  your  mercy  now  ? 
Bah!  I  shall  make  myself  a  thorn  in  your  sides  yet." 

"She  has  got  scent  of  the  second  marriage,"  whispered  Mr. 
Dark  to  me. 

There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it.  She  had  evidently  been  listen- 
ing at  the  door  on  the  night  when  my  master  came  back  longer 
than  I  supposed.  She  must'have  heard  these  words  about  "'  the 
new  wife  " — she  might  even  have  seen  the  effect  of  them  on  Mr. 
James  Smith. 

"  We  do  not  at  present  propose  to  charge  Josephine  Durand 
with  perjury,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  but  with  another  offense,  for 
which  it  is  important  to  try  her  immediately,  in  order  to  effect 
the  restoration  of  property  that  has  been  stolen.  I  charge  her 
with  stealing  from  her  mistress,  while  in  her  service  at  Darroek 
Hall,  a  pair  of  bracelets,  three  rings,  and  a  dozen  and  a  half  of 
lace  pocket-handkerchiefs.  The  articles  in  question  were  taken 
this  morning  from  between  the  mattresses  or  her  bed;  and  a  let- 
ter was  found  in  the  same  place  which  clearly  proves  that  she 
had  represented  the  property  as  belonging  to  herself,  and  that 
she  had  tried  to  dispose  of  it  to  a  purchaser  in  London."  "While 
he  was  speaking,  Mr.  Dark  produced  the  jewelry,  the  handker- 
chiefs, and  the  letter,  and  laid  them  before  the  justice. 

Even  Josephine's  extraordinary  power  of  self-control  now  gave 
way  at  last.  At  the  first  words  of  the  unexpected  charge  agaiust 
her  she  struck  her  hands  together  violently,  gnashed  her  sharp 
white  teeth,  and  burst  out  with  a  torrent  of  fierce-sounding 
words  in  some  foreign  language,  the  meaning  of  which  I  did  not 
understand  then,  and  cannot  explain  now. 
v  "I  think  that's  checkmate  for  marmzelle,"  whispered  Mr. 


77, 

Park,  with  1  >  the 

Hall  now.  William,  and  «lr;i  <>f  that 

ale  o;  il  be  after  \ou    in    Bve    minutes,  as    -"«'ii   aw  the, 

de  nil!." 
n!<l  lianily  reali/e  it  when  I  found  myself  walking  bar 

in. 

hi  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  time  Mr.  Dark  joined  me.  and  di 
to  my  healtli,  happin  1    ])rosperity  in  three  separate  turn- 

After  performing  this  ceremony,  he  \  I  and 

chuekled  with  an  appearance  of  sueh  excessive  enjoyment   that 

•1.1  not  avoid  remarking  on  his  high  spirits. 
"It  William — it's  the  beautiful  neatness  of  the 

that  quite  intoxicates  me.     Oh  Lord,  what  a  happiir 

rued  in  sueh  a  job  as  this!"  cries  Mr.  Dark,  slapping  his 
stumpy  hands  on  his  fat  knees  in  a  sort  of  ecst;i 

1  had  a  very  different  opinion  of  the  case  for  my  own  part,  hut 
I  did  7iot  venture  on  expressing  it.  I  was  too  anxious  to  know 
how  Mr.  .Jame-,  Smith  had  l>een  discovered  and  produced  at  the 

ination  to  enter  into  any  arguments.     Mr.  Dark  gu- 
what  was  passing  in  my  mind,  and,  telling  me  to  sit  down  and 
make  myself  comfortable,  volunteered  of  his  own  accord  to  in- 
form me  of  all  that  I  wanted  to  know. 

"When  I  got  my  instructions  and  my  statement  of  partic- 
ulars," he  began,   "  I  was  not  at  all  surprised  to  hear  that  Mr. 
James  Smith  had  comeback.     (I  prophesied  that,  if  you  remem- 
\Villi-im,  the    last   time  we    met?)     But  I  was  a   <rood  deal 
ished.  nevertheless,  at    the  turn  things   had   taken,   and   I 
can't  say  I  felt  very  hopeful  about  finding  our  man.     Ho\\ 
I  followed  my  master's  directions,  and  put  the  advertisement  in 
the  paper-.     It  addressed  Mr.  James  Smith  by  name,  but  it 
very  carefully  worded  as  to  what  was  wanted  of  him.     Two 
after  it  appeared,  a  letter  came  to  our  office  in  a  woman's 
handwriting.     It  was   my    business   to  open  the    '•  ml  I 

opened  that.     The  writer  was   short  and  mysterious.     S! 
quested  that  somebody  would  call  from  our  o;  t  certain 

addi  veen  the  hours  of  two  and  four  that  afternoon,  in 

the  advertisement    which   we  had   inserted    in  tins 
Of  course.  I  was  the  somebody  who  went.      I  kept 
If  from  budding  up  hopes  by  tl  knowing  what 

of  Mr.  ,).  niths  there  were  in  London.     On  getting  to  the 

e,  1    was  shown  into   t he  drawing-room,  and  there,  dr- 
aper and  lying  on  a  sofa,  was  an    uncommon! 
woman,  who  looked  as  if    she  was    just  recovering  from  an  ill* 
.     She  had  a   newspaper  by   her  side,  and  <  point 

at  once:     '  My  husband's  name   is  .lames  Smith.'  she  sa 
I  have  my  rea-ons  for  wanting  to  know  if  he  is  the  pe: 

ii  search  of/     1  described  our  man  a>   Mr.  .lames  Smi: 
Darrock   Hall,  Cumberland.     'I    know   no   Mich    i 

— " 

11  What!   was  it  not  the  second  wife,  after  all?"  I  broke  out. 
"  Wait   a  bit,"  says  Mr.  Dark.     M  I  mentioned  the  name  of  the 

an  1    she   started    ui 
•  i  think  you 


216  THE    QUEEN    OF1   HEARTS. 

She  turns  as  pale  as  ashes,  and  drops  back  on  the  sofa,  and  says 
faintly:  '  It  is  my  husband.  Oh,  sir,  what  has  happened  ?  What 
do  you  want  with  him  ?  Is  he  in  debt  ?'  I  took  a  minute  to 
think,  and  then  made  up  my  mind  to  tell  her  everything,  feel- 
ing that  she  would  keep  her  husband  (as  she  called  him)  out  of 
the  way  if  I  frightened  her  by  any  mysteries.  A  nice  job  I  had, 
William,  as  you  may  suppose,  when  she  knew  about  the  bigamy 
business.  What  with  screaming,  fainting,  crying,  and  blowing 
me  up  (as  if  I  was  to  blame!),  she  kept  me  by  that  sofa  of  hers 
the  best  part  of  an  hour— kept  me  there,  in  short,  till  Mr.  James 
Smith  himself  came  back.  I  leave  you  to  judge  if  that  mended 
matters.  He  found  me  mopping  the  poor  woman's  temples  with 
scent  and  water;  and  he  would  have  pitched  me  out  of  the 
window,  as  sure  as  I  sit  here,  if  I  had  not  met  him  and  staggered 
him  at  once  with  the  charge  of  murder  against  his  wife.  That 
stopped  him  when  he  was  in  full  cry,  I  can  promise  you.  '  Go 
and  wait  in  the  next  room,'  says  he,  *  and  I'll  come  in  and  speak 
to  you  directly.' " 

"And  did  you  go?"  I  asked. 

"  Of  course  1  did,"  said  Mr.  Dark.  "  I  knew  he  couldn't  get 
out  by  the  drawing-room  windows,  and  I  knew  I  could  watch 
the  door;  so  away  I  went,  leaving  him  alone  with  the  lady,  who 
didn't  spare  him  by  any  manner  of  means,  as  I  could  easily  hear 
in  the  next  room.  However,  all  rows  in  the  world  come  to  an 
end  sooner  or  later,  and  a  man  with  any  brains  in  his  head  may 
do  what  he  pleases  with  a  woman  who  is  fond  of  him.  Before 
long  I  heard  her  crying  and  kissing  him.  '  I  can't  go  home,'  she 
says,  after  this.  '  You  have  behaved  like  a  villain  and  a  mon- 
ster to  me — but,  oh!  Jemmy,  1  can't  give  you  up  to  anybody! 
Don't  go  back  to  your  wife!  Oh,  don't  go  back  to  your 
wife!'  '  No  fear  of  that,'  says  he.  '  My  wife  wouldn't  have 
me  if  I  did  go  back  to  her.'  After  that  I  heard  the  door 
open,  and  went  out  to  meet  him  on  the  landing.  He  began 
swearing  the  moment  he  saw  me,  as  if  that  was  any  good. 
'  Business  first,  if  you  please,  sir,,'  says  I,  'and  any  pleasure 
you  like,  in  the  way  of  swearing,  afterward.'  With  that 
beginning  I  mentioned  our  terms  to  him,  and  asked  the  pleasure 
of  his  company  to  Cumberland  in  return.  He  was  uncom- 
monly suspicious  at  first,  but  I  promised  to  draw  out  a  legal 
document  (mere  waste  paper,  of  no  earthly  use  except  to  pacify 
him),  engaging  to  hold  him  harmless  throughout  the  proceed- 
ings; and  what,  with  that,  and  telling  him  of  the  frightful  danger 
his  wife  was  in.  I  managed,  at  last,  to  carry  my  point/ 

"  But  did  the  second  wife  make  no  objection  to  his  going  away 
with  you?"  I  inquired. 

"  Not  she,"  said  Mr.  Dark.  "  I  stated  the  case  to  her  just  as 
it  stood,  and  soon  satisfied  her  that  there  was  no  danger  of  Mr. 
James  Smith's  first  wife  laying  any  claim  to  him.  After  hear- 
ing that,  she  joined  me  in  persuading  him  to  do  his  duty,  and 
said  she  pitied  your  mistress  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 
With  her  influence  to  back  me,  I  had  no  great  fear  of  our  man 
changing  his  mind.  I  had  the  door  watched  that  night,  how- 
ever, so  as  to  make  quite  sure  of  him.  The  next  morning  he 


•1  a  «)ii;i  in  hour 

that  tin-    north    road. 

journe\    with    p.  g    afraid    of    ch 

yon  knou  ,  in  pir  (  >n  tin-  way  down  V. 

Smith  and  1  ^<>t  on  as  comfortably  together  as  it'   we  hail  I 

of  old    friends.      1    told    tin  f  our  t  racing  him  \- 

north  of  Scotland,  and   IK-  i^ave  me   the  particulars,  in  return, 
of  his   boltii  Darrock   Hall.     They  are  rather  am u 

William:   would  yon  like  to  hear  them? 

id  Mr.  Dark  that    lit-   had    anticipated   the  very  question  I 

k  him." 

l>  \Ycll,"  he  said,  "this  is  how  it  was:  To   begin   at   the  b< 
our    man   really    took    Mrs.    Smith,    Number  Two.   i< 
.n.  as  we  heard.     He  sailed   uj>  the  Spanish   • 
and,  after  short  tups  ashore,  stopped  at  a  sea-side  place  in  Fi 
called  Cannes.     There  ht  saw  a   house  and    grounds  to  be 
which  took  his  fancy  as  a  nice  retired  pla-'r  to  keep  NumberTwo 
in.     Nothing  particular  was  wauted  but  the   money  to  buy  it, 
and,  not  having   the  little  amount   in   his   own   p< 

iiith  makes  a  virtue  of   necessity,  and    uors    b,-, 
land  to  his  wife  with  private  designs  on  her  pur>e-strin.L;s.   Num- 
ber Two,  who  objects  to  be  left  behind,  ^oes  with  him   as  far  as 
London.     There  he  trumps  up  the  lirst  story  that  comes  into  his 
about  rents  in   the  country,   and    a    house   in   Lincolnshire 
that  is  too  damp  for  her  to  trust   herself   in;  and   so,  leaving  her 
days  in  London,  starts  boldly  for   Darroek    Hall.      His 

>  wheedle  your  mistress  out  of  the   money  by 
behavior;  but  it  seems  he  started   badly  by  quarreling  with   her 

it  a  fiddle-playing  parson " 

"  Y  1  know  all  about  that  part  of  the  story,"!  broke  in, 

4  by  Mr.  Dark's   manner  that    lie  was   likely  to   -<p.-ak    both 

intly  and  impertinently  of  my  mistros'  unlucky  friendship 

lr.  Meeke.      "Go  on  to  the  time  when  I  left  my  master  alone 

in  the  Red  Room,  and  tell  me  what  he  did  hi  !  and 

the  next  morning." 
••  Did  '."''  said  Mr.  Dark.      "Why.  he  went  to  bed  with  the   un- 

ant  conviction,  on  his  mind  that  your  mi-; 

turnout,  and  with  no  comfort  to  speak  •  iat  he  could 

it  of  the  brandy  InUtle.     lie  couldn't  'nore 

!  and  tumbled,  the  more  certain  he  felt  that  his  wii 
tended  to  have   him  tried  for  bi^amv.      At   I  1-1.  tou 
of  the  morning,  he  could  stand  it  no  lon-jvr.  and  he  ;»  his 

mind  to  law  the  slip  while  h--  had  the  chan 

i.  it  struck    him   that    there    mi-hi 

otTered  for  catching  him.  and  he  deiermine.l  to  make  in 
change  in  Ins  p.-r><>nal   appearaiicv  \\  hich    pu/./led    • 
so  much  before  the  mai^i-i  r  • 

!>s  his  hair   in    no  time,   and    i; 
iire    was  out,  and    he   had    to   >hav. 

What  with  that,  and  what  with  the  llui  ml,  naturally 

•i.u'h  he  cut  himself v 

dried   the  hi I    with   h  i. 

••  \Vitn  hi> 


218  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

thing  that  lay  handy,  and  he  snatched  it  up.  Wait  a  bit,  though; 
the  cream  of  the  thing  is  to  come.  When  he  had  done  being  his 
own  barber,  he  couldn't  for  the  life  of  him  hit  on  a  way  of  get- 
ting rid  of  the  loose  hair.  The  fire  was  out,  and  he  had  no 
matches,  so  he  couldn't  burn  it.  As  for  throwing  it  away,  he 
didn't  dare  do  that  in  the  house  or  about  the  house,  for  fear  of 
its  being  found,  and  betraying  what  he  had  done.  So  he  wraps 
it  all  up  in  paper,  crams  it  into  his  pocket  to  be  disposed  of  when 
he  is  at  a  safe  distance  from  the  Hall,  takes  his  bag,  gets  out  at 
the  window,  shuts  it  softly  after  him,  and  makes  for  the  road  as 
fast  as  his  long  legs  will  carry  him.  There  he  walks  on  till  a 
coach  overtakes  him,  and  so  travels  back  to  London  to  find  him- 
self in  a  fresh  scrape  as  soon  as  he  gets  there.  An  interesting 
situation,  William,  and  hard  traveling  from  one  end  of  France 
to  the  other,  had  not  agreed  together  in  the  case  of  Number  Two. 
Mr.  James  Smith  found  her  in  a  bed,  with  doctor's  orders  that 
she  was  not  to  be  moved.  There  was  nothing  for  it  after  that 
but  to  lie  by  in  London  till  the  lady  got  better.  Luckily  for  us, 
she  didn't  hurry  herself;  so  that,  after  all,  your  mistress  has  to 
thank  the  very  woman  who  supplanted  her  for  clearing  her 
character  by  helping  us  to  find  Mr.  James  Smith." 

*•  And,  pray,  how  did  you  come  by  that  loose  hair  of  his  which 
you  showed  before  the  justice  to-day  ?"  I  asked. 

"  Thank  Number  Two  again,"  says  Mr.  Dark.  "  I  was  put  to 
asking  after  it  by  what  she  told  me.  While  we  were  talking 
about  the  advertisement,  T  made  so  bold  as  to  inquire  what  first 
set  her  thinking  that  her  husband  and  the  Mr.  James  Smith 
whom  we  wanted  might  be  one  and  the  same  man.  •  Nothing,' 
says  she,  '  but  seeing  him  come  home  with  his  hair  cut  short 
and  his  whiskers  shaved  off,  and  finding  that  he  could  not  give 
me  any  good  reason  for  disfiguring  himself  in  that  way.  I  had 
my  suspicions  that  something  was  wrong,  and  the  sight  of  your 
advertisement  strengthened  them  directly.'  The  hearing  her 
say  that  suggested  to  my  mind  that  there  might  be  a  difficulty 
in  identifying  him  after  the  change  in  his  looks,  and  I  asked 
him  what  he  had  done  with  the  loose  hair  before  we  left  Lon- 
don. It  was  found  in  the  pocket  of  his  traveling  coat  just  as  he 
hud  huddled  it  up  there  on  leaving  the  Hall,  worry,  and  fright, 
and  vexation  having  caused  him  to  forget  all  about  it.  Of  course 
I  took  charge  of  the  parcel,  and  you  know  what  good  it  did  as 
well  as  I  do.  So  to  speak,  William,  it  just  completed  this  beau- 
tifully neat  case.  Looking  at  the  matter  in  a  professional  point 
of  view,  I  don't  hesitate  to  say  that  we  have  managed  our  busi- 
ness with  Mr.  James  Smith  to  perfection.  We  have  produced 
him  at  the  right  time,  and  we  are  going  to  get  rid  of  him  at  the 
right  time.  By  to-night  he  will  be  on  his  way  to  foreign  parts 
with  Number  Two,  and  he  won't  show  his  nose  in  England  again 
if  he  lives  to  the  age  of  Methuselah." 

It  was  a  relief  to  hear  that,  and  it  was  almost  as  great  a  com- 
fort to  find,  from  what  Mr.  Dark  said  next,  that  my  mistress 
need  fear  nothing  that  Josephine  could  do  for  the  future. 

The  charge  of  theft,  on  which  she  was  about  to  be  tried,  did 
not  afford  the  shadow  of  an  excuse  in  law  any  more  than  in 


Til  HEAR'.  '    219 

for  alludin  I  hirli  her  m  I.      If 

;t  to  tall  16  might 

iiion.  hi;'  <-uld  not  ha<  lightest 

usly  in  a  court  of  law. 

'•  In  sh>  ;  r.  Dark,  risit  ice  his  It- 

told  you  William,  i'  unate   for   marm/elle. 

didn't    in.  <-f   the    robbery  half   as    -harph 

should    have   expected.       She  certainly  began   \\ell    enough    by 
•Modestly  at  a  lodging  in  the  village  her   al1 

ic  examinations,  as  it  might  be  required:  nothing  could 
more  innocent  and   respectable  so  far:  hut   her  hiding  the 

n  the  mat  Irenes  of  her  bed — the  very  first  ; 
that  need  man  would  think  of  looking  in — was 

an  amazingly  -tupid  thing  to  do.  that  I  really  can't  account   for 
her  mind  had  more  weighing  on  it  than  it  was  able  to 
which,   considering  the  If  1   for,   is 

h.      Anyhow,    her    hands    are    tied    now,    and 
;'or  the  matter  of  that.     Give  my  • 

and  tell    her  that   her  runaway  husband  and    her  lying 

maid  will  never  either  of  them  harm  her  again   as  long  as  they 

live.     She  has  nothing  to  do  now  but  to  pluck  up  her  spirits  and 

iappv.     Here's  long  life  to  her  anH  to  William,  in  the  last 

md  here's  the  same  toast  to  myself  in  the  bottom  of 

the  jug." 

"With  these  words  Mr.  Dark  pocketed  his  lartre  snuff-box.  L 
a    last    wink    with    his    bright   eye.    and    walked    rapid! 
whistling,  to  catch  the  London  coach.     From  that   time  to  this 

•ul  1  have  never  met  again. 

A  few  l-i-t  words  relating  to  my  mistress  and  to  the  other 
ehiefly  concerned  in  this  narrative  will  conclude  all  that  is 

iry  for  me  to  say. 

For  some  months,  the  relatives  and   friends,  and  I  myself,  felt 
misgivings   on    my  poor  mi  u-count.      We  doubt 

le.  with   such  a  quick,  sensible   nature  as  hers,  that 

.  ould   Mipport    the  shock  which    had   been    inflicted  on  her. 

Hut  our  powers  of  endurance  are.  MS  I  have  learned    to  believe. 

•en  equal  to  the  burdens  laid  upon  us  than  we  are  apt  t" 

imagine.      Iha\-  ,rpri-;ing  r<  from  illness 

after  all  hope  had  been  lost,  and  I  have  liv-  my  mi- 

torn  tin  ';d  terror  which  we  once  thought  would 

:al  to  her.      It  was  long  before  ^ie  began  to  hold  up  her 
lin:     bn  and    kindness,    and    time    and    change, 

wrought    their  ell'ect    on  her  at  la^t.     She  is  not  now.  ;md  : 
will  M,  the  woman  si  :   her  manner   is  al; 

and  she  !  ier  by  n  than  -he  really  i>.      HI. 

healt  h  cans. -s  us  no  anxiety  now:  her  spirits  are  cal  'jiial. 

and    I    h  that    many  qu1  n  her 

re   left    for   me   still.      I  myself  hav. 
lon.u  I   of  time   which    I   am    now  passing  over   in; 

This  chang"  in  my  life  is.  |>erhaps    not  wt>rth   me: 
ing.  but  1  am  reminded  of  mv  two  lin  \\hen  I 

it  ion.  think  t 

i    happiness,   and   i:  r  life, 


220    -  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

and  prevent  her  from  feeling  lonely  and  dried  up  at  heart.  It 
is  a  pleasant  reflection  to  me  to  remember  this,  and  perhaps  it 
may  be  the  same  to  you,  for  which  reason  only  I  speak  of  it. 

As  for  the  other  persons  connected  with  the  troubles  at  Dar- 
rock  Hall,  I  may  mention  the  vile  woman  Josephine  first,  so  as 
to  have  the  sooner  done  with  her.  Mr.  Dark's  guess,  when  he 
tried  to  account  for  her  want  of  cunning  in  hiding  the  stolen 
property  by  saying  that  her  mind  might  have  had  more  weigh- 
ing on  it  than  she  was  able  to  bear,  turned  out  to  be  nothing  less 
than  the  plain  and  awful  truth.  After  she  had  been  found 
guilty  of  the  robbery,  and  had  been  condemned  to  seven  years, 
transportation,  a  worse  sentence  fell  upon  her  from  a  higher 
tribunal  than  anv  in  this  world.  While  she  was  still  in  the 
county  jail,  previous  to  her  removal,  her  mind  gave  way,  the 
madness  breaking  out  in  an  attempt  to  set  fire  to  the  prison. 
Her  case  was  pronounced  to  be  hopeless  from  the  first.  The  law- 
ful asylum  received  her,  and  the  lawful  asylum  will  keep  her  to 
the  end  of  her  days. 

Mr.  James  Smith,  who,  in  my  humble  opinion,  deserved  hang- 
ing by  law,  or  drowning  by  accident  at  least,  lived  quietly 
abroad  with  his  Scotch  wife  (or  no  wife)  for  two  years,  and  then 
died  in  the  most  quiet  and  customary  manner,  in  his  bed,  after 
a  short  illness.  His  end  was" described  tome  as  a  "  highly  edify- 
ing one."  But  as  he  was  also  reported  to  have  sent  his  forgive- 
ness to  his  wrife — which  was  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  was  the 
injured  person  of  the  two — I  take  leave  to  consider  that  he  was 
the  same  impudent  vagabond  in  his  last  moments  that  he  had 
been  all  his  life.  His  Scotch  widow  has  married  again,  and  is 
now  settled  in  London.  I  hope  her  husband  is  all  her  own  prop- 
perty  this  time. 

Mr.  Meeke  must  not  be  forgotten,  although  he  has  dropped  out 
of  the  latter  part  of  my  story  because  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  serious  events  which  followed  Josephine's  perjury.  In  the 
confusion  and  wretchedness  of  that  time,  he  was  treated  with 
very  little  ceremony,  and  was  quite  passed  over  when  we  left  the 
neighborhood.  After  pining  and  fretting  some  time,  as  we  after- 
ward heard,  in  his  lonely  parsonage,  he  resigned  his  living  at  the 
first  chance  he  got,  and  took  a  sort  of  under-chaplain's  place  in 
an  English  chapel  abroad.  He  writes  to  my  mistress  once  or 
twice  a  year  to  ask  after  her  health  and  well- being,  and  she 
writes  back  to  him.  That  is  all  the  communication  they  are  ever 
likely  to  have  with  each  other.  The  music  they  once  played  to- 
gether will  never  sound  again.  Its  last  notes  have0  long  since 
faded  away,  and  the  last  words  of  this  story,  trembling  on  the 
lips  of  the  teller,  may  now  fade  with  them. 


THE  NINTH  DAY. 

A  LITTLE  change  in  the  weather.  The  rain  still  continues,  but 
the  wind  is  not  quite  so  high.  Have  I  any  reason  to  believe,  be- 
cause it  is  calmer  on  land,  that  it  is  also  calmer  at  sea  ?  Per- 
haps not.  But  my  mind  is  scarcely  so  uneasy  to-day,  neverthe- 
less, 


77  /  V    OF  TS. 

I  had  looked  over  fix-  newspaper  with  I1 
had  laid   it  down  with  t  i 

handed   me  M    letter   which    she   had   i 

'•itten  by  her  aunt,  and   it   upbraided  her  in 
•••d  terms  which  ladies  love  t"  cmpl. 

•  if  tlieir  own   are  concerned.  long 

: nl  her  '  from  home.     Home!     I  thought  of 

d  of  the  one  hope  on  which  ail  1: 
MI!  1  felt   jealous  of  tho   word  when  I  saw  it    i 
•tier  to  our  guest.     What  right  had  ai 
••home"  to  her  until  (reorge  had  spoken  first? 
"  1  must    answer  it  hy  return  of  post,  said  Jessie,  with  a 
rrow  in  her  voice  for  which  my  heart  warmed  to  her.    " 
M  very  kind  to  me:  TOU  have  taken  more  pains  to  i 
rid  amuse   me  than  I  am  worth.     lean  laugh  about  most 
•ut  T  can't  laugh  ahout  going  away.     I  am  honestly  and 

ul  for  that." 

paused,  eame  round  to  where  I  was  sitting,  perched 
self  on  the  end  of  the  table,  and,  resting  her  hands  on  my  r-hotil- 

.  added  gently: 
"It  must  be  the  day  after  to-morrow,  must  it  not?" 

>uld  not  trust  myself  to  answer.     If  I  had  spoken,  I  should 
ha\  i'(l  (Jeorge's  secret  in  spite  of  myself. 

''To-morrow   is  the  tenth   day."    she   went   OD,   softly.     "It 

-elfish  and  so  ungrateful  to  go  the  moment  I  h;: 
the  last  of  the  stories,  thai  I  am  quite  di  :  at  hein_ 

to  enter  on  the  subject  at  all.     And  yet,  what  choice  i> 
what  can  I  do  when  my  aunt  writes  to  me  in  that  wa 

She  took  up  the  letter  again,  and  looked  at  it  so  ruefully  that 
I  drew  her  head  a  little   nearer  to  me,  and  gratefully  kis<ed  tho 

>th  white  forehead. 

"  If  your  aunt   is  only  half  as  anxious  to  see  you  again,  my 
love,  ag  I  am  to  -on,  I  must  forgive  her  for  tal. 

v  from 

The    words  came    from  me   without   premeditation.     It 
alculation  this  time,  but  sheer  instinct  that  impel 
;er  in  this  way.  once  more,  by  a  direct  ivferen 
She  was  80  Close  to  me  that  T  felt  hei  breath  quiver  on  my  c! 
Her  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  my  face  a    moment   before,  but    thev 
wandered  away   from  it  constrainedly.     One  of  her   hands 
trembled  a  little  on  my  shoulder,  and  she  took  it  off. 

hank  you  for  tr  make  our  parting  easier  to  i 

said,  quickly,  and  in  a  lower  tone  than  she  had    spoken    in 
1  made  no  answer,  but    still   looked  her  anxiously    in   i 

is  her  nimble,  delic, 

and  refolded  the  letter  from  her  aunt.  \<  brupth 

her  p« .sit ion. 

"The  sooner  I  wrr  .oner  it  will  be 

hurriedly  turned  away  to  the  paper  Me. 

How  was  the  change  in  her  mariner  to  U>  rightly  interpiv 

hurt  by  what    I    had    said.  «r  \\  :Iy  so    much 

it,  in  the  impressionable  state  of  her  min 

'•nt,  LIS  to  be  incapable  oung  g< 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

ary  self-control?  Her  looks,  actions  and  language  might  bear 
either  interpretation.  One  striking  omission  had  marked  her 
conduct  when  I  had  referred  to  George's  return.  She  had  not 
inquired  when  I  expected  him  back.  Was  this  indifference? 
Surely  not.  Surely  indifference  would  have  led  her  to  ask  the 
conventionally  civil  question  which  ninety-nine  persons  out  of  a 
hundred  would  have  addressed  to  me  as  a  matter  of  course.  Was 
she,  on  her  side,  afraid  to  trust  herself  to  speak  of  George  at  a 
time  when  an  unusual  tenderness  was  aroused  in  her  by  the 
near  prospect  of  saying  farewell  ?  It  might  be — it  might  not  be 
— it  might  be.  My  feeble  reason  took  the  side  of  my  inclination: 
and,  after  vibrating  between  Yes  and  No,  I  stopped  where  I  had 
begun — at  Yes. 

She  finished  the  letter  in  a  few  minutes  and  dropped  it  into 
the  post-bag  the  moment  it  was  done. 

"  Not  a  word  more,"  she  said,  returning  to  me  with  a  sigh  of 
relief — "  not  a  word  about  my  aunt  or  my  going  away  till  the 
time  comes.  We  have  two  more  days;  let  us  make  the  most 
of  them." 

Two  more  clays!  Eight-and  -forty  hours  still  to  pass;  sixty 
minutes  in  each  of  those  hours;  and  every  minute  long  enough 
to  bring  with  it  an  event  fatal  to  George's  future!  The  bare 
thought  kept  my  mind  in  a  fever.  For  the  remainder  of  the 
day  I  was  as  desultory  and  as  restless  as  our  Queen  of  Hearts 
herself.  Owen  affectionately  did  his  best  to  quiet  me,  but  in 
vain.  Even  Morgan,  who  whiled  away  the  time  by  smoking  in- 
cessantly, was  struck  by  the  wretched  spectacle  of  nervous 
anxiety  that  I  presented  to  him,  and  pitied  me  openly  for  being 
unable  to  compose  myself  with  a  pipe.  Wearily  and  uselessly 
the  hours  wore  on  till  the  sun  set.  The  clouds  in  the  western 
heaven  wore  wild  and  tortured  shapes  when  I  looked  out  at 
them ;  and,  as  the  gathering  darkness  fell  on  us,  the  fatal,  fear- 
ful wind  rose  once  more. 

When  we  assembled  at  eight,  the  drawing  of  the  lots  had  no 
longer  any  interest  or  suspense,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned.  I 
had  read  my  last  story,  and  it  now  only  remained  for  chance  to 
decide  the  question  of  precedency  between  Owen  and  Morgan. 
Of  the  two  numbers  left  in  the  bowl,  the  one  drawn  was  Nine. 
This  made  it  Morgan's  turn  to  read,  and  left  it  appropriately  to 
Osven,  as  our  eldest  brother,  to  close  the  proceedings  on  the  next 
night. 

Morgan  looked  round  the  table  when  he  had  spread  out  his 
manuscript,  and  seemed  half  inclined  to  open  fire,  as  usual, 
with  a  little  preliminary  sarcasm;  but  his  eyes  met  mine;  he 
saw  the  anxiety  I  was  suffering;  and  his  natural  kindness,  per- 
versely as  he  might  strive  to  hide  it,  got  the  better  of  him.  He 
looked  down  on  his  paper;  growled  out  briefly,  "No  need  for  a 
preface;  my  little  bit  of  writing  explains  itself;  let's  go  on  and 
have  done  with  it,"  and  so  began  to  read  without  another  word 
from  himself  or  from  any  of  us. 


riJAITKlt  I. 

IT  was  certainly  a  dull  little  dinner-party.    <  M 
two  of  U-  leu  between  fil'ty  and  sixty,  and  t\. 

youths  between  eighteen  and  twenty,  and   v.v   had  in, 
Million.      We  were  all  intimate  witli  cur  Imst.  but  \ 
slightly  acquainted  with  each  other.     Perl 
got  on  better  if  there  had  been  some  1. 

»T  of  the   house  was  a  baehelor,  and. 
maid,  who  assisted  in  waiting  on  us  at  dinner,  no  da; 
Eve  was  present  to  brighten  the  dreary  scene. 

We  tried  all  sorts  of  subjects,  but  they  di  :ic  after  the 

other.     The  elder  gentlemen  seemed  to  he  afraid  of  committing 
themselves  by  talking  too  freely  within   hearing  of  us  jm 
and  we,  on  our  side,  restrained  our  youthful  fl< 
youthful  freedom  of  conversation  put  of  d-  to  our 

who  seemed  once  or  twice  to  In- feeling  a  little  i!  t  the 

continued  propriety  of  our  behavior  in  the  pr< 
spectable  guests.     To  make   matters   worse,  \ve   had  dine-! 
sensible  hour.     When  the  bottles  made  their  first  round  at 
sert,  the  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  only  struck  eight.    1  counted 
the  strokes,  and  felt  certain,  from  the  expression  of  his  face1,  that 
the  other  junior  guest,  who  sat  on  one  side  of  me  >und 

table,  was  counting  them  also.     When  we  came  to  the 
eight,  we  exchanged  looks  of  despair.     "Two  hours  mor 
this!     What  on  earth  is  to  become  of  us?''    In  the  language  of 
the  eyes,  that  was  exactly  what  we  said  to  each  ot! 

The  wine  was  excellent,  and  I  think  we  all  came  se 
and  secretly  to  the  same  conclusion— that  our  chair 
through  the  evening  was  intimately  connected  wit 
tion  hi  getting  through  the  bottles. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  we  talked  wine.     No  companx 
lishmen  can  assemble    together  for  an  evenin 
that.     Every  man  in  this  country  who  is  rich  en 
income-tax  has  at    one    time   or  other   in   his    li 
very  remarkable  transaction  in  wine.     Sometimes  he1 
such  a  bargain  as  he  never  expects  to  make  again, 
he  is  the  only  man  in  England,  not  a  1m,  who 

has  got  a  sin.-le  drop  of  a  certain  famou  iiicli  ha 

;  from  the  face  of  the  earth.     Sometirir 
with  a  friend,  a  fe\v  last  left  do/ens  from  the  cellar. 

price  so  exorbitant   that    1;. 
head  and  decline  mentioning  it;  and.  if  you 
wag   Ins  head,  and  decline  mentioi 

at  an  out-of-th-  untry  inn;  ha-  found  ti 

not  drinkable;  has  asked  if  (her.  me  in  the  1; 

has  been  informed  that  then  tutfthat 

nobody  every  drinks;"  ha -'.-ailed  f«»i  :id   it 

Burgundy,  such  as  all    I  annot    now    produ 

ningly  kept  his  own  coun-; -1  with  the  landlady,  and  ha 


224  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

the  whole  stock  for  "  an  old  song."  Sometimes  he  knows  the 
proprietor  of  a  famous  tarern  in  London,  and  he  recommends 
nis  one  or  two  particular  friends,  the  next  time  they  are  passing 
that  way,  to  go  in  and  dine  and  give  his  compliments  to  the 
landlord,  and  ask  for  a  bottle  of  the  brown  sherry,  with  the  light 
blue — as  distinguished  from  the  dark  blue— seal.  Thousands  of 
people  dine  there  every  year,  and  think  they  have  got  the 
famous  sherry  when  they  get  the  dark  blue  seal;  but  the  real 
wine,  the  famous  wine,  is  the  light  blue  seal,  and  nobody  in 
England  knows  it  but  the  landlord  and  his  friends.  In  all  these 
wine- con  versatioDS,  whatever  variety  there  may  be  in  the  various 
experiences  related,  one  of  two  great  principles  is  invariably  as- 
sumed by  each  speaker  in  succession.  Either  he  knows  more 
about  it  than  any  one  else,  or  he  has  got  better  wine  of  his  even 
than  the  excellent  wine  he  is  now  drinking.  Men  can  get  to- 
gether sometimes  without  talking  of  women,  without  talking  of 
horses,  without  talking  of  politics,  but  they  cannot  assemble  to 
eat  a  meal  together  without  talking  of  wine,  and  they  cannot 
talk  of  wine  without  assuming  to  each  one  of  themselves  an  ab- 
solute infallibity  in  connection  with  that  single  subject  which 
they  would  shrink  from  asserting  in  relation  to  any  other  topic 
tinder  the  sun. 

How  long  the  inevitable  wine-talk  lasted  on  the  particular 
social  occasion  of  which  I  am  now  writing  is  more  than  I  can 
undertake  to  say.  T  had  heard  so  many  other  conversations  of 
the  same  sort  at  so  many  other  tables  that  my  attention  wan- 
dered away  wearily,  and  I  began  to  forget  all  about  the  dull  lit- 
tle dinner-party,  and  the  badly-assorted  company  of  guests  of 
whom  I  formed  one.  How  long  J  remained  in  this  not  over- 
courteous  condition  of  mental  oblivion  is  more  than  I  can  tell; 
but  when  my  attention  was  recalled,  in  due  course  of  time,  to 
the  little  world  around  me,  I  found  that  the  good  wine  had  be- 
gun to  do  its  good  office. 

The  stream  of  talk  on  either  side  of  the  host's  chair  was  now 
beginning  to  flow  cheerfully  and  continuously;  the  wine  conver- 
sation had  worn  itself  out;  and  one  of  the  elder  guests — Mr. 
Wendell — was  occupied  in  telling  the  other  guest— Mr.  Trow- 
bridge — of  a  small  fraud  which  had  lately  been  committed  on 
him  by  a  clerk  in  his  employment.  The  first  part  of  the  story  I 
missed  altogether.  The  last  part,  which  alone  caught  my  at- 
tention, followed  the  career  of  the  clerk  to  the  dock  of  the  Old 
Bailey. 

"  So,  as  I  was  telling  you,"  continued  Mr.  Wendell,  "I  made 
up  my  mind  to  prosecute,  and  I  did  prosecute.  Thoughtless  peo- 
ple blamed  me  for  sending  the  young  man  to  prison,  and  said  I 
might  just  as  well  have  forgiven  him,  seeing  that  the  trifling 
sum  of  money  I  had  lost  by  his  breach  of  trust  was  barely  as 
much  as  ten  pounds.  Of  course,  personally  speaking,  I  would 
much  rather  not  have  gone  into  court;  but  I  considered  that  my 
duty  to  society  in  general,  and  to  my  brother  merchants  in  par- 
ticular, absolutely  compelled  me  to  prosecute  for  the  sake  of  ex- 
ample. I  acted  on  that  principle,  and  I  don't  regret  that  I  did 
so.  The  circumstances  under  which  the  man  robbed  me  were 


Til 

M'tilarly  'fill.      !  a   hard-  ,ir,  if 

ever  there  \v;ts  out-  yet:  and  I  1» 
•ed  nothing   luit  th> 

himself." 

At  the  moment  when  Mr.  Wendell  personified  hi-  con- 

summate villainy  by  quoting  the  example  of   Fauntleroy,  I  saw 

•(her  middle-aged  gentleman — Mr.  Tro \vhri 
;dden,  and  1  fidget  in  liis  chair. 

u  want  to  produce  an  instance  of  a  villain. 

sir.'1  said  Mr.  Trowbi -idi_re.  "  I  wisli  you  could  contrive  to  quote 
some  other  example  than  FamUler* 

Mr.  Wendell  naturally  enough  looked  excessively  astoni 
when  he  heard  these  words,  which  were  very  firmly,  and,  at  the 
same  time,  very  politely,  addressed  to  him. 

lay  I  inquire  why  you  object  to  my  example?"  he  asked. 
"I  object  to  it,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Trowbndge,  "  i> 
me  very  uncomfortable  to  hear  Fauntleroy  called  a  villain." 

"Good  he-  xclaimed   Mr'  Wendell,  utterly  be- 

wild.  Uncomfortable!— \  ou,  a  mercantile  man  like"  my- 

self—you, whose  character  stands  so  high  everywhere — you  uh- 
comfortahle  when  you  hear  a  man  who  was  hanged  for  forgery 
called  a  villain!  In  the  name  of  wonder,  why  ?" 

"B>  answered  Mr.  Trowbridge,  with  perfect  compos- 

ure, "  Fauntleroy  was  a  friend  of  mine." 

"Excuse  me,  my  dear  sir,"  retorted  Mr.  Wendell,  in  as  pol- 
ished a  tone  of  sarcasm  as  he  could  command;  k'but  of  all  the 
friends  whom  you  have  made  in  the  course  of  your  useful  and 
honorable  career,  I  should  have  thought  the  friend  you  have  just 
ioiied  would  have  been  the  very  Ia.-4  to  whom  you  were 
likely  to  refer  in  respectable  society,  at  least  by  name. 

•tnntleroy  committed  an  unpardonable  crime,  and    died  a 

aceful  death,"  said  Mr.  Trow  bridge.     "But,  for  all  that, 

Fauntleroy  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and  in  that  character  I  shall 

always  acknowledge  him  boldly  to  my  dying  day.     1  have  a  ten- 

•  •mory.  though  he  violated  a  sacred  trust,   and 

died   for  it   on  the  gallows.     Don't  look  .shocked,  Mr.  Wendell. 

1  will  tell  you,  and   our  other  friends  here,  if  : 

why  I   feel  that    tenderness,  which   looks  SO  str  >  dis- 

vour  eyes.     It  is  rather  a  curious  a  • 

st,  1  think,  for  all  observers  of  human  nature  quite 

apart  from  it-  coi  oe  :ti  -u  with   the  unhappy  in  n  we 

u    talking.     You    }  oung    gentlen,  /Jmud    Mr. 

Fauntleroy,    though    lie    sinned    and    su:  d    all 

England 

We  answered   i  -ily  heard  of    him  as  one  of 

the  famous  criminals  of  his  dav.      V-  .•  had   b- 

partner  in  a  great  London  banking-lion- 

virtuou  nat  lu-    had 

of   trust-miiiie\  -  which 
that   he  had  been  ha 
hundred  and  twenty-four,  \\hen  the 


226  THE    QUEEN    OF  -HEARTS. 

other  crimes  than  murder,  and  when  Jack  Ketch  was  in  fashion 
as  one  of  the  hard- working  reformers  of  the  age. 

"  Very  good,"  said  Mr.  Trowbridge.  "You  both  of  you  know 
quite  enough  of  Fauntleroy  to  be  interested  in  what  I  am  going 
to  tell  you.  When  the  bottles  have  been  round  the  table,  I  will 
start  with  my  story." 

The  bottles  went  round — claret  for  the  degenerate  youngsters; 
port  for  the  sterling,  steady- headed,  middle-aged  gentleman. 
Mr.  Trowbridge  sipped  his  wine — meditated  a  little — sipped 
again — and  started  with  the  promised  anecdote  in  these  terms. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WHAT  I  am  going  to  tell  you,  gentlemen,  happened  when  I 
was  a  very  young  man,  and  when  I  was  just  setting  up  in 
business  on  my  own  account. 

My  father  had  been  well  acquainted  for  many  years  with  Mr. 
Fauntleroy,  of  the  famous  London  banking  firm  of  Marsh, 
Stracey,  Fauntleroy,  &  Graham.  Thinking  it  might  be  of 
some  future  service  to  me  to  make  my  position  known  to  a 
great  man  in  the  commercial  world,  my  father  mentioned  to  his 
highly-respected  friend  that  1  was  about  to  start  in  business  for 
myself  in  a  very  small  way,  and  with  very  little  money.  Mr. 
Fauntleroy  received  the  intimation  with  a  kind  appearance  of 
interest,  and  said  that  he  would  have  his  eye  on  me.  I  expected 
from  this  that  he  would  wait  to  see  if  I  could  keep  on  my  legs 
at  starting,  and  that,  if  he  found  I  succeeded  pretty  well,  he 
would  then  help  me  forward  if  it  lay  in  his  power.  As  events 
turned  out,  he  proved  to  be  a  far  better  friend  than  that,  and 
he  soon  showed  me  that  I  had  very  much  underrated  the  hearty 
and  generous  interest  which  he  had  felt  in  my  welfare  from 
the  first. 

While  I  was  still  fighting  with  the  difficulties  of  setting  up  my 
office,  and  recommending  myself  to  my  connection,  and  so 
forth,  I  got  a  message  from  Mr.  Fauntleroy  telling  me  to  call  on 
him,  at  the  banking-house,  the  first  time  I  was  passing  that  way. 
As  you  may  easily  imagine,  I  contrived  to  be  passing  that  way 
on  a  particularly  early  occasion,  and,  on  presenting  myself  at 
the  bank,  I  was  shown  at  once  into  Mr.  Fauntleroy's  private 
room. 

He  was  as  pleasant  a  man  to  speak  to  as  ever  I  met  with— 
bright  and  gay,  and  companionable  in  his  manner — with  a  sort 
of  easy,  hearty,  jovial  bluntness  about  him  that  attracted  every- 
body. The  clerks  all  liked  him — and  that, is  something  to  say  of 
a  partner  in  a  banking-house,  I  can  tell  you! 

"  Well,  young  Trowbridge,"  says  he,  giving  his  papers  on  the 
table  a  brisk  push  away  from  him,  "  so  you  are  going  to  set  up 
in  business  for  yourself,  are  you  ?  I  have  a  great  regard  for  your 
father,  and  a  great  wish  to  see  you  succeed.  Have  you  started 
yet?  No?  Just  on  the  point  of  beginning,  eh ?  Very  good. 
you  wilkhave  your  difficulties,  my  friend,  and  1  mean  to  smooth 
one  of  fpem  away  for  you  at  the  outset.  A  word  of  advice  for 
your  private  ear — Bank  with  r.-  " 


7V 

:  ion.  if  I  could. 

hall  have  very  little  l.-'t  to  put  by  for  tin-  first  year. 
Meto  niustcrmuch  more  tli;in  thn-ehui. 
shin   tin-    world   alter   pa\ing   what  I  r 

;liee.  ;m<l  I  sliould  b  led  to  trouble 

int  for  such  a  trifle  as  that." 

I   noiise  ys  Mr.    Fountleroy.      "Are   you  a 

bank'  :iat  business  have  you   to  offer  an   opinion  on  the 

matter V     Do  as  1  tell  you  —  leave  it  to  me — bank  with  us — and 

-u  like.     Stop!  I  haven't  done  vet.     When  you 

ak  to  the  head  cashier.     Perhaps  you  may 

find  he  1,  omething  to  tell  you.     There!  there!  go  away — 

don't  interrupt  i  <  lod  bless  you!" 

That  was  Hs  way — ah!  poor  fellow,  that  was  his  way. 

I  went  to  the  head  eashier  the  next  morning  when  I  opened 

my  little  modieiim  of  an  account.     He  had  received  orders  to 

drafts   without   reference   to   my    balance.      My  checks, 

drawn,  were  to  be  privately  shown  to  Mr.  Faun- 

tleroy.    1  >o  many  young  men  who  start  in  business  find  their  pros- 

:  iors  ready  to  help  them  in  that  wa 

Well.  I  -"i  on— got  on  very  fairly  and  steadily,  being  careful 
not  to  venture  out  of  my  depth,  and   not  to  forget  that  small  be- 
ginnings may  lead  in  time  to  great  ends.     A  prospect  of  one  of 
nds — great,  I  mean,  to  such  a  small  trader  as  I  was 
at  thai  p'-riod — showed  itself  to  me  when  I  had  been  some  little 
time  in  business.     In  plain  terms,  I  had  a  chance  of  joining  in  a 
transaction,  which  would  give  me  profit,  and  position, 
and  everything   I    wanted,  provided   I  could  qualify  myself  for 
engaging  in  it  by  getting  good  security  beforehand  for  a  very 

mount. 

In  thisemer-ency,  I  thought  of  my  kind  friend,  Mr.  Fauntl- 
and  went  to  the  hank,  and  saw  him  once  more  in  his  pi- 
room. 

There  he  was  at  the  same  table,  with  the  same  heaps  of  papers 
about  him,  and  the  same  hearty,  easy  way  of  speaking  his  mind 
D6,  in  the  f'e \\est    possible    words.     T  explained  the 
business  1  came  upon  with  some   little  hesitation   and   ner\ 

for  1  was   afraid   he   mLht   think  1    was   taking   an  unfair 
adva1  his  former  kindnos   to   me.      When    I    had  done, 

he  just    nodded  his   head,  snatehe  {   uj    a    blank    sh. 
scribbled  a  few  lines  on  it  in  his  rapid   way,  handed  the  \\riting 
to   me,  and   pushed    me  out    of  the    room  by   the    t> 
h"fore     1    could  mule    word.       1     looked    at     the 

fice.      It   was  my  security  from    that 
16   for  the   whole  amount,   and    for   mo 
wan 

•uld  not  expre-s  my  gratitude  then,  and  I  don't   know  that 
i    now.      1  can  only  outlived  the 

crime,  the  d  ind  the  auful  death  on  the  scaffold;   I  am 

grieved  i  of   that  death  at  all:  but  1  have  no  <>th',r  alter- 

native.   The  course  of  n 


228  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

the  later  time,  and  to  tbe  terrible  discovery  which  exposed 
my  benefactor  and  my  friend  to  all  England  as  the  forger 
Fauntleroy. 

I  must  ask  you  to  suppose  a  lapse  of  sometime  after  the  occur- 
rence of  tbe  events  that  I  have  just  been  relating.  During  this 
interval,  thanks  to  the  kind  assistance  I  had  received  at  the  out- 
set, my  position  as  a  man  of  business  had  greatly  improved. 
Imagine  me  now,  if  you  please,  on  the  high  road  to  prosperity, 
with  good  large  offices  and  a  respectable  staff  of  clerks,  and  pict- 
ure me  to  yourselves  sitting  alone  in  my  private  room  between 
four  and  five  o'clock  on  a  certain  Saturday  afternoon. 

All  my  letters  had  been  written,  all  the  people  who  had  ap- 
pointments with  me  had  been  received.  I  was  looking  carelessly 
over  the  newspaper,  and  thinking  about  going  home,  when  one 
of  my  clerks  came  in,  and  said  that  a  stranger  wished  to  see  me 
immediately  on  very  important  business. 

"  Did  he  mention  his  name?"  I  inquired. 

"No,  sir." 

"  Did  you  not  ask  him  for  it  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  And  he  said  you  would  be  none  the  wiser  if  he  told 
me  what  it  was." 

"  Does  he  look  like  a  begging-letter  writer?" 

"  He  looks  a  little  shabby,  sir,  but  he  doesn't  look  at  all  like  a 
begging-letter  writer.  He  spoke  sharp  and  decided,  sir,  an  J  said 
it  was  in  your  interests  that  he  came,  and  that  you  would  deeply 
regret  it  afterward  if  you  refused  to  see  him." 

"  He  said  that,  did  he?    Show  him  in  at  once,  then." 

He  was  shown  in  immediately;  a  middle-sized  man,  with  a 
sharp,  unwholesome-looking  face,  and  with  a  flippant,  reckless 
manner,  dressed  in  a  style  of  shabby  smartness,  eying  me  with 
a  bold  look,  and  not*so  overwhelming  with  politeness  as  to 
trouble  himself  about  taking  off  his  hat  when  he  came  in.  I 
had  never  seen  him  before  in  my  life,  and  I  could  not  form  the 
slightest  conjecture  from  his  appearance  to  guide  me  toward 
guessing  his  position  in  the  world.  He  was  not  a  gentleman,  evi- 
dently; but  as  to  fixing  his  whereabouts  in  the  infinite  down- 
ward gradations  of  vagabond  existence  in  London,  that  was  a 
mystery  which  I  was  totally  incompetent  to  solve. 

"  Is  your  name  Trowbridge?"  he  began. 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  dryly  enough. 

"Do  you  bank  with  March,  Stracey,  Fauntleroy  &  Graham?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Answer  my  question,  and  you  will  know." 

"  Very  well,  I  do  bank  with  March,  Stracey,  Fauntleroy  & 
Graham — and  what  then?" 

"  Draw  out  every  farthing  of  balance  you  have  got  before  the 
bank  closes  at  five  to-day." 

I  stared  at  "him  with  speechless  amazement.  The  words,  for 
an  instant,  absolutely  petrified  me. 

"  Stare  as  much  as  you  like,"  he  proceeded  coolly,  "  I  mean 
what  I  say.  Look  at  your  clock  there.  ID  twenty  minutes  it 
will  strike  five,  and  the  bank  will  be  shut.  Draw  out  every 
farthing,  I  tell  you  again,  and  look  sharp  about  it." 


Tli  ///•:.  I /,.  229 

"  Draw  out  m\ 

in  VOIP 
i  hank  with 

-you,  who  arc  a   total 
takin  iordinary  ii  If  you 

iiy  don't  you  explain  y< 

"I  have  explained  myself.     Act  on  my  a<  -t  as 

you  like.     It  don't  matter  to  me.     I  have  done  what  I  promised, 
and  there's  an  end  of  it." 

turned  to  the  door.  The  minute-hand  of  the  clock  was 
getting  on  from  twenty  minutes  to  the  quarter. 

"  Done  what  you  pron  :  ed,  getting  up  to  stop 

him. 

••  Yes,"  he  said,  with  his  hand  on  the  lock.     "I  have  given 
my  message.     Whatever  happe;  aiber  that.     Good-after- 

noon." 

He  was  gone  before  I  could  speak  again. 

I  tried  to  call  after  him,  but  m  .  suddenly  failed  me.    It 

very  foolish,  it  was  very  "unaccountable,  but  there  was 
something  in  the  man's  last  words  which  had  more  than  half 
frightened  me. 

1  looked  at  the  clock.     The  minute-hand  was  on  the  quarter. 

as  ju^t  t'ar  enough  from  the  bank  to  make  it  u> 
sary  for  me   to  decide  on  the  instant.     If  I  had   had  tin 
think,  I  am  perfectly  en-tain  that  1  should  not  have  profited  by 
the  extraordinary  warning  that  had  ju.-t  been  addressed   to 
The  suspicious   appearance   and  manners  of   the  stranger;  the 
outrageous  improbability  of  the  inferen  st  the  credit  of 

the  bank  toward  which  his  words  pointed;  the  chance  that  some 
underhand  attempt  was  being  made.  by  some  enemy  of  mine,  to 
frighten  me  into  embroiling  myself  with  one  of  my  best 
Is.  through  showing  an  ignorant  distrust  of  the  tirm  with 
winch  he  \\  as  partner — all  :  lions 

would  unquestionably  have  <  !  to  me  if  1  could  have  found 

time    for  reflection:  and.  as  a  neo  .   not  one 

farthing  of  my  balai  U-eu  taken  from  the  keeping 

of  the  hank  on  that  memorahi 

1    had   just    time   enough   to  act,  and    : 
moment  for  thinking.     Some  heavy  payments  made  at  th< 
ginni  he  week  had  80  far  d    my  bala: 

sum   to    in\    eivdit    in  the  hank  i;   hard;, 

hundred  pound-.     T  snatehed  up  my  el  <  draft 

aount,  and  ordered  one  pf  <  m  to 

the  haul,  >'d  before   the  d<  .      \\~ha; 

pulse  urged  me  on.  except    the  blind   impulse  of  hurry  and  be- 
wilderment.   1  iy.      I  acted    mechanically  c  the 
influence  of  the  vague   inexpli<                 ir  which   the   man's  ex- 
words  had  aroused  in  me.  without 
us— aln. 

about.      In  three  minutes  from  the  tim«  tnger 

had  clerk  1  for  the  md  I 

.done  again  in  i  i.  with  my  1 

my  head  all  in  a  whirl. 


2BO  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

I  did  not  recover  my  control  over  myself  until  the  clerk  came 
back  with  the  notes  in  his  hand.  He  had  just  got  to  the  bank 
in  the  nick  of  time.  As  the  cash  for  my  draft  was  handed  to 
him  over  the  counter,  the  clock  struck  five,  and  he  heard  the 
order  given  to  close  the  doors. 

When  I  had  counted  the  bank  notes  and  had  locked  them  up 
in  the  safe,  my  better  sense  seemed  to  come  back  to  me  on  a 
sudden.  Never  have  I  reproached  myself  before  or  since  as  I 
reproached  myself  at  that  moment.  What  sort  of  return  had  I 
made  for  Mr.  Fauntleroy's  fatherly  kindness  to  me?  I  had  in- 
sulted him  by  the  meanest,  the  grossest  distrust  of  the  honor 
and  the  credit  of  his  house,  and  that  on  the  word  of  an  absolute 
stranger,  of  a  vagabond,  if  ever  there  was  one  yet.  It  was  mad- 
ness— downright  madness  in  any  man  to  have  acted  as  I  had 
done.  I  could  not  account  for  my  ovn  inconceivably  thought- 
less proceeding.  I  could  hardly  believe  in  it  myself.  I  opened 
the  safe  and  looked  at  the  bank-notes  again.  I  locked  it  once 
more,  and  flung  tl  e  key  down  on  the  table  in  a  fury  of  vexation 
against  myself.  There  the  money  was,  upbraiding  me  with  my 
own  inconceiveable  folly,  telling  me  in  the  plainest  terms  that  I 
had  risked  depriving  myself  of  nay  best  and  kindest  friend  hence- 
forth and  forever. 

It  was  necessary  to  do  sometning  at  once  toward  making  all 
the  atonement  that  lay  in  my  power,  I  felt  that,  as  soon  as  I 
began  to  cool  down  a  little.  There  was  one  plain,  straightfor- 
ward way  left  now  out  of  the  scrape  in  which  I  had  been 
mad  enough  to  involve  myself.  I  took  my  hat,  and  without 
stopping  an  instant  to  hesitate,  hurried  off  to  the  bank  to  make 
a  clean  breast  of  it  to  Mr.  Fauntleroy. 

When  I  knocked  at  the  private  door  and  nsked  for  him,  I  was 
told  that  he  had  not  been  at  the  bank  for  the  last  two  days. 
One  of  the  other  partners  was  there,  however,  and  was  working 
at  that  moment  in  his  own  room. 

I  sent  in  my  name  at  once,  and  asked  to  see  him.  He  and  1 
were  little  better  than  strangers  to  each  other,  and  the  interview 
was  likely  to  be,  on  that  account,  unspeakably  embarrassing 
and  humiliating  on  my  side.  Still,  I  could  not  go  home.  I 
could  not  endure  the  inaction  of  the  next  day,  the  Sunday,  with- 
out having  done  my  best  on  the  spot  to  repair  the  error  into 
which  my  own  folly  had  led  me.  Uncomfortable  as  I  felt  at  the 
prospect  of  the  approaching  interview,  I  should  have  been  far 
more  uneasy  in  my  mind  if  the  partner  had  declined  to  see  me. 

To  my  relief,  the  bank  porter  returned  with  a  message  request- 
ing me  to  walk  in. 

What  particular  form  my  explanations  and  apologies  took 
when  I  tried  to  offer  them  is  more  than  I  can  tell  now.  I  was 
so  confused  and  distressed  that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was  talk- 
ing about  at  the  time.  The  one  circumstance  which  I  remember 
clearly  is  that  I  was  ashamed  to  refer  to  my  interview  with  the 
strange  man,  and  that  I  tried  to  account  for  my  sudden  with- 
drawal of  my  balance  by  referring  it  to  some  inexplicable  panic, 
caused  by  mischievous  reports  which  I  was  unable  to  trace  to 
their  source,  and  which,  for  anything  I  knew  to  the  contrary, 


Tli' 

1  ter  all,  ha\ 

r   did   not  seem  to  notice   the 

.UK!  did  not  additiooally  confuse  K. 
asking  any  questions.      A  weary,  absent  look,  which  I   had   ob- 

hen   I  came  in,  remained  on  it  while  1 

speaking.      1.  in  effort  to  him  even  to  keep  up  the 

!    listening  to  me;  and  when,  at  last.  1  fairly  broke 
!  >\\  n  in  the  middle  •  nd  gave  up  the  hope  ol 

tint;  any  further,  all  the  answer    he  gave  me  was  comprised   in 

ii  commonplace  \vord>: 

:   mind.  Mr.  Trowbridge,  pray  don't  think  ol   apol 
We  are  all    liable   to   make   mistakes.     Say  nothing  more 
about  it,  and  bring  the  money  back  on  Monday  if  you  still  honor 
us  with  your  confidence." 

He  looked  down  at  his  papers  as  if  he  was  anxious  to  be  alone 

.  and  I  had  no  alternative,  of  course,  but  to  take  my  leave 

diately.     1  went  home,  feeling  a  little  easier  in  my   mind, 

now   that  1    had   paved    the   way   for   making  the  l>ost  pra< 

atonement  in  my  jM>wer  by  bringing  my   balance  back   the  first 

thin^  on  Monday  morning.     Still,  1  passed  a  weary  day  on  Sun- 

ivtlecting,  ^adly  enough  that  I  had  not  yet  made  my  peace 

with  Mr.  Fauntleroy.     My  anxiety  to  set .myself  right  with  my 

generous  friend  wa^  so  intense  tint  I  risked  intruding  myself  on 

his  privacy  by  calling  at  his  town  residence  on  the  Sunday.     He 

not    (here,  and    his  servant  could  tell  me  nothing  of  his 

whereabouts.     There  was  no  help  for  it  now  but  to  wait  till  his 

day  duties  brought  him  back  to  the  bank. 
I  went  to  business  on   Monlay   morning  half  an  hour  earlier 
than  usual,  so  great  was  my  impatience  to  restore  the   amount 
of  that  unlucky  draft  to  my  account  as  soon  as  possible  after 

.ink  opened. 

On  entering  my  office,  1  stopped  with  a  startled  feeling  just 
inside  the  door.     Semethiup  serious  had  happened.     The  cl 

id  of  being  at  their  desks  as  usual,  were  all  huddled  to- 
gether in  a  -Tun p.  talking  to  each  other  with  blank  :  'A' hen 
they  saw  me.  they  fell  back  behind  my  managing  man,  who 

orward  with  a  circular  in  his  hand. 
"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  sir?"  he  said. 

0,     What  is  it?" 

lie  handed  me  the  circular.     My  h<  ve  one  violent  throb 

the  instant  I  looked  at  it.     I  felt   m\>elf   turn  pale;  I   felt   my 
knees  trembling  under  me. 

iimtleroy,  &  Graham  had  stopped  [ 

tie  circular  had  not  sued  more  than  hai  ur," 

continued   my    managing  c!  n  the 

.     Thedoorg 

;npany  have  stopped  this  morning." 
I  hardly  heard    him:   I   hardly   knew    who  me. 

isitor  of  the  Saninluy  had  taken  instant  po-» 
of  all  my  thoughts,  and  his  words  of  warning  seemed  t 
sounding  once  more  in  m\  nan  had  known  the 

true  cc)uditi<  •   bank   when   n  soul  on 

iloors  was  aware  of  it!     The  last  dr  inter 


232  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

of  that  ruined  house,  when  the  doors  closed  on  Saturday,  was 
the  draft  that  I  had  so  bitterly  reproached  myself  for  drawing; 
the  one  balance  saved  from  the  wreck  was  my  balance.  Where 
had  the  stranger  got  the  information  that  had  saved  me  ?  and 
why  had  he  brought  it  to  my  ears  ? 

I  was  still  groping,  like  a  man  in  the  dark,  for  an  answer  to 
those  two  questions — I  was  still  bewildered  by  the  unfathomable 
mystery  of  doubt  into  which  they  had  plunged  me — when  the 
discovery  of  the  stopping  of  the  bank  was  followed  almost  im- 
mediately by  a  second  shock,  far  more  dreadful,  far  heavier  to 
bear,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  than  the  first. 

While  I  and  my  clerks  were  still  discussing  the  failure  of  the 
firm,  two  mercantile  men,  who  were  friends  of  mine,  ran  into 
the  office,  and  overwhelmed  us  with  the  news  that  one  of  the 
partners  had  been  arrested  for  forgery.  Never  shall  I  forget 
the  terrible  Monday  morning  when  those  tidings  reached  me, 
and  when  I  knew  that  the  partner  was  Mr.  Fauntleroy. 

I  was  true  to  him — I  can  honestly  say  I  was  true  to  my  belief 
in  my  generous  friend — when  that  fearful  news  reached  me. 
My  fellow-merchants  had  got  all  the  particulars  of  the  arrest. 
They  told  me  that  two  of  Mr.  Fauntleroy's  fellow-trustees  had 
come  up  to  London  to  make  arrangements  about  selling  out 
some  stock.  On  inquiring  for  Mr.  Fauntleroy  at  the  banking- 
house,  they  had  been  informed  that  he  was  not  there;  and,  after 
leaving  a  message  for  him,  they  had  gone  into  the  city  to  make 
an  appointment  with  their  stock- broker  for  a  future  day,  when 
their  fellow-trustee  might  be  able  to  attend.  The  stock-broker 
volunteered  to  make  certain  business  inquiries  on  the  spot,  with  a 
view  to  saving  as  much  time  as  possible,  and  left  them  at  his 
office  to  await  his  return.  He  came  back,  looking  very  much 
amazed,  with  the  information  that  the  stock  had  been  sold  out 
down  to  the  last  five  hundred  pounds.  The  affair  was  instantly 
investigated;  the  document  authorizing  the  selling  out  was  pro- 
duced; and  the  two  trustees  saw  on  it,  side  by  side  with  Mr. 
Fauntleroy's  signature,  the  forged  signatures  of  their  own 
names.  This  happened  on  the  Friday;  and  the  trustees,  without 
losing  a  moment,  sent  the  officers  of  justice  in  pursuit  of  Mr, 
Fauntleroy.  He  was  arrested,  brought  up  before  the  magistrate, 
and  remanded  on  the  Saturday.  On  the  Monday  I  heard  from 
my  friends  the  particulars  which  I  have  just  narrated. 

But  the  events  of  that  one  morning  were  not  destined  to  end 
even  yet.  I  had  discovered  the  failure  of  the  bank  and  the  ar- 
rest of  Mr.  Fauntleroy.  I  was  next  to  be  enlightened,  in  the 
strangest  and  the  saddest  manner,  on  the  difficult  question  of 
his  innocence  or  his  guilt. 

Before  my  friends  had  left  my  office — before  I  had  exhausted 
the  arguments  which  my  gratitude  rather  than  my  reason  sug- 
gested to  me  in  favor  of  the  unhappy  prisoner,  a  note,  marked 
immediate,  was  placed  in  my  hands,  which  silenced  me  the  in- 
stant I  looked  at  it.  It  was  written  from  the  prison  by  Mr. 
Fauntleroy,  and  it  contained  two  lines  only,  entreating  me  to 
apply  for  th<  -vry  order,  and  to  go  and  see  him  immedi- 

ately, 


77'  V     a  I-'     //AM  A1. 

itteinpt     t«>  the  till! 

I    and    hope    that     : 
•li/.ed   his  handwriting,  and  red  what  it 

:.•  t<>  il.i.      I   obtained  the  .'pier,  and  w.-nt  to  tin-  pi  i 

The  authorities,  knowing  the  dreadful  situation   in  whin 

t'l-aitl  of  his  attempting  t«»  destroy  himself,  :un! 

itch  him.     <  >ne   came   out    as   tin-;. 
cell   door.     The  other,  who  was   hound    not    to   leave   him. 

tely  and    considerately  all'ectcd    to   he   lookin-   out   of  the 
window  the  moment  I  was  shown   in. 

sitting  on  the  side  of  his  bed,  with  his  head  drooping 
and    his    hands    hanging  listlessly  over   his   knees  when    1 
caugi  of  him.      At  the  sound   of   my  approach    h. 

to  liis  feet,  an<],  without  speaking  a  word,  Hung   l>oth    his  arms 
round  my  neck. 

Mv  heart   swelled  up. 

"Tell  UK-  it's  not    true,  sir!     For  Cod's  sake,  tell   me  it's  not 
tni.  ;dl  I  could  say  to  him. 

I  Ie  never  answered— oh,  me!  he  never  answered,  and  he  tip 
away  his  face. 

There  was  one  dreadful  moment  of  silence.     Be  still  held  his 
arms  round  my  neck,  and  on  a  sudden   he   put    his  lips 

"Did  you  get  your  money  out  r"  he  whispered.     "Were 
in  time  on  Saturday  afternoon'.'" 

I  broke  free  from   him  in  the  astonishment  of  hearing  t 
words. 

"  What!"  I  cried  out  loud,  forgetting  the   third    person  at  the 

window.     "  That  man  who  brought  the  e 

"llush!"  lie  said,  putting  his  hand  on  my  lips.     "T; 
no  better  man  to   lie   found,  after  the  officers  had  taken  me — I 
know  no   more   about    him    than   you  do— I  paid  him  well. 
chance  in.'  and  ri*'  heating  me  of  his  errand.'' 

him.  t! 
44 1  sent  him." 

M.     There  is  no  need  for  me  to  tell 

you  that  Mr.  Fauntlcroy  was  found  guilty,  and  that   he  <li« 
the  hangman's   hand.     It  was  in   my  p 
moments  in  this  world  by  taking  on   myself  the  an 

which,  while    they  : 

I    heavily   on    his   mind.     They  had   n< 
with  the  crimes  he  bad  commit:-  1   could  do  him   th. 

little  pt  at  my  hands  wit 

'ice. 

v  nothing  in  d'  r—  not  1 

of  the  'oil'  r  which  he   sulTered.      r>ut    !  that 

in  th'  !'  his  m  inity,  u 

of  the  law  had  a'  d  him.  he  thought  of  th 

irnble  f«  iie  had  i  iild;  wl 

'•ly  won:  who-e  -imple  faith  he 

,-Uid  liis  - 


234  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

sit  here  that  one  of  Faimtleroy's  last  efforts  in  this  world  was  the 
effort  he  made  to  preserve  me  from  being  a  loser  by  the  trust  I 
had  placed  in  him.  There  is  the  secret  of  my  strange  tenderness 
for  the  memory  of  a  felon;  that  is  why  the  word  villain  does 
somehow  still  grate  on  my  heart  when  I  hear  it  associated  with- 
the  name— the  disgraced  name,  I  grant  you — of  the  forger  Faun- 
tleroy.  Pass  the  bottles,  young  gentlemen,  and  pardon  a  man 
of  the  old  school  for  having  so  long  interrupted  your  conversa- 
tion with  a  story  of  the  old  time. 


THE  TENTH  DAY. 

THE  storm  has  burst  on  us  in  its  full  fury.  Last  night  the 
stout  old  tower  rocked  on  its  foundations. 

I  hardly  ventured  to  hope  that  the  messenger  who  brings  us 
our  letters  from  the  village — the  postman,  as  we  call  him — 
would  make  his  appearance  this  morning,  but  he  came  bravely 
through  rain,  hail,  and  wind.  The  old  pony  which  he  usually 
rides  had  refused  to  face  the  storm,  and,  sooner  than  disappoint 
us,  our  faithful  postman  had  boldly  started  for  the  Glen  Tower 
on  foot.  All  his  early  life  had  been  spent  on  board  ship,  and,  at 
sixty  years  of  age,  he  had  battled  his  way  that  morning  through 
the  storm  on  shore  as  steadily  and  as  resolutely  as  ever  he  had 
battled  it  in  his  youth  through  the  storm  at  sea. 

I  opened  the  post-bag  eagerly.  There  were  two  letters  for 
Jessie  from  young  lady  friends;  a  letter  for  Owen  from  a 
charitable  society;  a  letter  to  me  upon  business;  and — on  this 
last  day,  of  all  others — no  newspaper! 

I  sent  directly  to  the  kitchen  (where  the  drenched  and  weary 
postman  was  receiving  the  hospitable  attentions  of  the  servants) 
to  make  inquiries.  The  disheartening  Answer  returned  was  that 
the  newspaper  could  not  have  arrived  as  usual  by  the  morning 
post,  or  it  must  have  been  put  into  the  bag  along  with  the  letters. 
No  such  accident  as  this  had  occurred,  except  on  one  former  oc- 
casion, since  the-beginning  of  the  year.  And  now,  on  the  very 
day  when  I  might  have  looked  confidently  for  news  of  George's 
ship,  when  the  state  of  the  weather  made  the  finding  of  that 
news  of  the  last  importance  to  my  peace  of  mind,  the  paper,  by 
some  inconceivable  fatality,  had  failed  to  reach  me!  If  there 
had  been  the  slightest  chance  of  borrowing  a  copy  in  the  village, 
I  should  have  gone  there  myself  through  the  tempest  to  get  it. 
If  there  had  been  the  faintest  possibility  of  communicating,  in 
that  frightful  weather,  with  the  distant  county  town,  I  should 
have  sent  there  or  gone  there  myself.  I  even  went  the  length  of 
speaking  to  the  groom,  an  old  servant  whom  I  knew  I  could 
trust.  The  man  stared  at  me  in  astonishment,  and  then  pointed 
through  the  window  to  the  blinding  hail  and  the  writhing  trees. 

"No  horse  that  ever  was  foaled,  sir,"  he  said,  "would  face 
tJiat  for  long.  It's  a' most  a  miracle  that  the  postman  got  here 
alive.  He  says  himself  that  he  dursn't  go  back  again.  I'll  try 
it,  sir,  if  you  order  me;  but  if  an  accident  happens,  please  to 


KEN    ( 
mber,  what 

It  was  only  too   plain    that    tl' 

<I   him.      What    1    sulfered    I'roni   1 

Newspaper    1    am    ashamed   to   tfll. 
ran   •  ho\v   little   his   acquired    mental 

linst  his  natural  human  inheritance  of  sup 
rtain  circumstances  of  fear  and  su  until  1: 

d  in  his  own   proper   person.     We  IIP 
;  a  knowledge  of  the  extent  of  our  strei 
a  lifetime  and  bo  still  ignorant  of  ti.  at  of  our 

Up  to  this  time  I  had  presi  !t'-control  enough  to  hit! 

real  state  of  my  feelings  from  our  guest;  but  the  arrival  of  the 
tenth   day,   and  the  unexpected    trial  it  had  brou  h  it, 

found  me  at  the  end  of  my  r< 
soon   showed   her   that   something   had    j;-one 

;  ioned  me  on  the  subject  direeth .     My  miud  \\ 
state  of  confusion    that   no  excuse  occurred  to  me.     I  Jeti 

pitately,  and  entreated  Owen  and  Morgan   to  keep  her  in 
their  company,  and  out  of  mine,  for  tli 

strength  to  preserve  my  son's  secret  had  failed  me,  and  my  only 
chance  of  resisting  the  betrayal  of  it  lay  in  i 
of  keeping  put  of  the  way.     I  shut  myself  into  my  room  till  I 
could  bear  it  no  longer.     I  watched   my  opportunity,  and 
stolen  visits  over  and  over  again  to    the  barometer  in   the  hall. 
I  mounted  to  Morgan's  room  at  the  top  of  the  tower,  and  1< 
out  hopelessly  through  rain -mist  and  scud  for  si 
on  the  flood wd  valley-road  below  us.     I  stole 

uts'  hall,   and  questioned  the  old   postman  <i 
this  time  with  restorative  mulled  ale)  about  his 
of  storms  at  sea;  drew   him  into  telling  lon^,  ram'ilin. 
some  stories,  not  one  tenth  part  of  which  1  heard:  and  left  him 
with   my   nervous   irritability    increased    tenfold    by   In 

ipts  to  inteivst  and  inform  me.      Hour  by  hour,  all  tin- 
that  miserable  day,  I  opened  doors  and  \vindo\\ 
self  the  capricious  changes  of  ti  Q  from 

and  from  better  to  w  tin.      Now,  I  .-ent  once  more  for  the 

n,  when  it  looked  lighter;  and  now  I  fo  im  bun 

to   the   stables,    to   countermand    my   own    rash  My 

thoughts  seemed  to  drive  over  my  mind  as  the   rain  01 

arth:  the  confusion  within   me   was  th. 

mightier  turmoil  that  raized  oui>ide. 
Before  we  assembled  at  the  dinner-table, 
me  that  he  had  made  m 

1    nothing   more   than   a    few    friendly  inquiri. 
health  when  1  saw  her  a^ain.     The  meal  was  d 
and  <|uietly.     Tow-trd  dusk 
moment    the   idea  j>I    s.'ii  1;; 
more.    Hut,  now  that  the  obetacli 

the  obstacle  of  darkness  was  ael  up  in  its  pia 

felt  that  a  few  more  hours  would  decide  thedoubt  a'noir 
SO  far  as  thi  oncerned,  and  I  del 


236  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

a  little  longer,  having  already  waited  so  long.  My  resolution 
was  the  more  speedily  taken  in  this  matter,  as  I  had  now  made 
up  my  mind,  in  sheer  despair,  to  tell  my  son's  secret  to  Jessie  if 
he  failed  to  return  before  she  left  iis.  My  reason  warned  me 
that  I  should  put  myself  and  my  guest  in  a  false  position  by 
taking  this  step,  hut  something  stronger  than  my  reason  forbade 
me  to  let  her  go  back  to  the  gay  world  and  its  temptations  with- 
out first  speaking  to  her  of  George  in  the  lamentable  event  of 
George  not  being  present  to  speak  for  himself. 

We  were  a  sad  and  silent  little  company  when  the  clock  struck 
eight  that  night,  and  when  we  met  for  the  last  time  to  hear  the 
last  story.  The  shadow  of  the  approaching  farewell —itself  the 
shade  of  the  long  farewell — rested  heavily  on  our  guest's  spirits. 
The  gay  dresses  which  she  had  hitherto  put  on  to  honor  our  lit- 
tle ceremony  were  all  packed  up,  and  the  plain  gown  she  wore 
kept  the  journey  of  the  morrow  cruelly  be  fore  her  eyes  and  ours. 
A  quiet  melancholy  shed  its  tenderness  over  her  bright  young 
face  as  she  drew  the  last  number,  for  form's  sake,  out  of  the 
bowl,  and  handed  it  to  Owen  with  a  faint  smile.  Even  our  po- 
sitions at  the  table  were  altered  now.  Under  the  pretence  that 
the  light  hurt  my  eyes,  I  moved  back  into  a  dim  corner,  to  keep 
my  anxious  face  out  of  view.  Morgan,  looking  at  me  hard,  and 
muttering  under  his  breath,  "  Thank  Heaven,  I  never  married!" 
stole  his  chair  by  degrees,  with  rough,  silent  kindness,  nearer 
and  nearer  to  mine.  Jessie,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  vacated 
her  place  next,  and,  saying  that  she  wanted  to  sit  close  to  one 
of  us  on  the  farewell  night,  took  a  chair  at  Owen's  side.  Sad! 
sad!  we  had  instinctively  broken  up  already,  so  far  as  our  places 
at  the  table  were  concerned,  before  the  reading  of  the  last  story 
had  so  much  as  begun. 

It  was  a  relief  when  Owen's  quiet  voice  stole  over  the  weary 
silence,  and  pleaded  for  our  attention  to  the  occupation  of  the 
night. 

"Number  Six,"  he  said,  "  is  the  number  that  chance  has  left 
to  remain  till  the  last.  The  manuscript  to  which  it  refers  is  not, 
as  you  may  see,  in  my  handwriting.  It  consists  entirely  of  pas- 
sages from  the  Diary  of  a  poor,  hard-working  girl — passages 
which  tell  an  artless  story  of  love  and  friendship  in  humble  life. 
When  that  story  has  come  to  an  end,  I  may  inform  you  how  I 
became  possessed  of  it.  If  I  did  so  no\v,  I  should  only  forestall 
one  important  part  of  the  interest  of  the  narrative.  I  have  made 
no  attempt  to  find  a  striking  title  for  it.  It  is  called,  simply  and 
plainly,  after  the  name  of  the  writer  of  the  Diary— the  story  of 
Anne  Eod  way." 

In  the  short  pause  that  Owen  made  before  he  began  to  read,  I 
listened  anxiously  for  the  sound  of  a  traveler's  approach  out- 
side. At  short  intervals,  all  through  the  story,  I  listened  and 
listened  again.  Still,  nothing  caught  my  ear  but  the  trickle  of 
the  rain  and  the  rush  of  the  sweeping  wind  through  the  valley, 
sinking  gradually  lower  and  lower  as  the  night  advanced. 


Til  >     Of     III 

BROTH  STORY  OF  ANNE  RODWAY. 

['I'  t-\ 

*    *    *     M.\I:CII   3d  letter  to-day    from 

which  surprisi-d  me  ami  vexed   me   so  that  1  ha\  e  h< m  -ad  i 
hindhand  with  my  work  ever  since.      He  writes   in 
than  last  time,  and   absolutely  d  iliat   lit 

when  li.  America,  and  that  he  ha  up  his 

mind   to  come  li'inu'  to  London. 

How  happy  I  should  he  at  this  news,  if  he  only  returned  t 
a  prosperous  man!    As  it  is,  though  I  love  him  dearh 
not  look  forward  to  the    meeting  him    again,  disappointed 
broken  down,  and  poorer  than  ever,  without  a  f« 

:li  of   us.     1  was  t\\  -t,  birthday    ami    he 

was  thirty-three,  and  there  seem  am-e  now   than 

our  being  married.      It   is  all  I  can  do  to  keep  in 
die;  and   his  prospects,  since    lie  failed   in   t 

.  are  worse,  if  possible,  than  mi 
that  I  mind   so 'much  for  myself;  women,  in  all 

•ily  in   ii  -making  way,  I  :hink,  to 

be   more   patient  than   men.      What  I  dread  i>  i  despond- 

eucy,  and  the  liard  struggle  he  will  have  in  this  cruel  city  t< 
1,  let  alone  making  money  enough   to  marry 
poor   people  want  to  set  up  in  housekeeping  and  be 
happy  tog, -tlier.  it  seems  hard  that  they  can't  get  it  when  they 
are   1;  ,  nil  hearty,  and  willing  to  work.     The  clergyman 

said    in    his   sermon  last  Sunday  evening  that  all  things  were 
••d  for  the  best,  and  we  are  all   put  into  the  stations  in  life 
that  arc  |  i  for  us.     I  suppose  he  was  right,  beii, 

iitlernan  who  tills  the  church  to  crowding;   but  I  think 

"d    him   better  if  I   ha<  i 
hungry  at    tin-   time,  in  consequence  of   my  own   Nation  in  life 

ut  plain  needlewoman. 

1th.  — Mary  Mallinson  came  down  to  my  room  t 
cup  of  tea  with  inc.      I  read    her   bits  of  Robert's  letter,  to  shou 
!ie   has  her   troubles,  1  have  mine,  too;    hut  1  < 
;iig  her.  rn  to  misfoi  • 

and  that,  as  long  back  a-  i  remember,  she  lias  never  had 

the  least  morsel  of  luck  to  be  thankful  I 

in    my  gla-s,  and  to  say  if  she    had    nothing  to  !>»• 

il,  and    would    '. 
ier  if  sin-  could  be  i  d   and   < 

upliment   did   i:  i  im- 

iitly  in  her  tea-cup,  and  said.  "  If  I  was  only  as  good  a  hand 

'ine,  I  would  ci  with  the 

:irl    in    London.  .   laughi; 

me  for  a  moment,  and  shook  h,-r  ;  ut  of 

up   and  stop  her.     She  al\\  a\  s  runs 

otV  in  that  way  when  she  is  goii,  l>rid«' 

about  letting  other  peoi 

rch  5th. — A  fright  about  Mary.     I  i  iier  all 


238  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

as  she  does  not  work  at  the  same  place  where  I  do;  and  in  the 
evening  she  never  came  down  to  have  tea  with  me,  or  sent  me 
word  to  go  to  her;  so,  just  before  I  went  to  bed,  I  ran  up-stairs 
to  say* good-night. 

She  did  not  answer  when  I  knocked;  and  when  I  stepped  soft- 
ly in  the  room  I  saw  her  in  bed,  asleep,  with  her  work  not  half 
done,  lying  about  the  room  in  the  untidiest  way.  There  was 
nothing  remarkable  in  that,  and  I  was  just  going  away  on  tip- 
toe, when  a  tiny  bottle  and  wine-glass  on  the  chair  by  her  bed- 
side caught  my  eye.  I  thought  she  was  ill  and  had  been  taking 
physic,  and  looked  at  the  bottle.  It  was  marked  in  large  letters, 
"  Laudanum — Poison." 

My  heart  gave  a  jump  as  if  it  was  going  to  fly  out  of  me.  I 
laid  hold  of  her  with  both  hands,  and  shook  her  with  all  my 
might.  She  was  sleeping  heavily,  and  woke  slowly,  as  it  seemed 
to  me — but  still  she  did  wake.  I  tried  to  pull  her  out  of  bed, 
having  heard  that  people  ought  to  be  always  walked  up  and 
down  when  they  have  taken  laudanum;  but  she  resisted,  and 
pushed  me  away  violently. 

"Anne!"  says  she,  in  a  fright.  "For  gracious  sake,  what's 
come  to  you!  Are  you  out  of  your  senses?" 

"Oh,  Mary!  Mary!''  says  I,  holding  up  the  bottle  before  her, 

"  if  I  hadn't  come  in  when  I  did "  And  I  laid  hold  of  her  to 

shake  her  again. 

She  looked  puzzled  at  me  for  a  moment — then  smiled  (the  first 
time  1  had  seen  her  do  so  for  many  a  long  day)— then  put  her 
arms  round  my  neck. 

"  Don't  be  frightened  about  me,  Anne,"  she  says;  "  I  am  not 
worth  it,  and  there  is  no  need." 

"  No  need!"  says  I,  out  of  breath — "  no  need,  when  the  bottle 
has  got  poison  marked  on  it!" 

"Poison,  dear,  if  you  take  it  all,"  says  Mary,  looking  at  me 
very  tenderly,  "  and  a  night's  rest  if  you  only  take  a  little." 

I  watched  her  for  a  moment,  doubtful  whether  I  ought  to  be- 
lieve what  she  said  or  to  alarm  the  house.  But  there  was  no 
sleepiness  now  in  her  eyes,  and  nothing  drowsy  in  her  voice;  and 
she  sat  up  in  bed  quite  easily,  without  anything  to  support  her. 

"  You  have  given  me  a  dreadful  fright,  Mary,"  says  I,  sitting 
down  by  her  in  the  chair,  and  beginning  by  this  time  to  feel 
rather  faint  after  being  startled  so. 

She  jumped  out  of  bed  to  get  me  a  drop  of  water,  and  kissed 
me,  and  said  how  sorry  she  was,  and  how  undeserving  of  so 
much  interest  being  taken  in  her.  At  the  same  time,  she  tried 
to  possess  herself  of  the  laudanum  bottle,  which  I  still  kept 
cuddled  up  tight  in  my  own  hands. 

"  No,"  says  I.  "  You  have  got  into  a  low-spirited,  despairing 
way.  I  won't  trust  you  with  it." 

"I  am  afraid  I  can't  do  without  it,"  sayw  Mary,  in  her  usual 
quiet,  hopeless  voice.  "  What  with  work  that  I  can't  get 
through  as  I  ought,  and  troubles  that  I  can't  help  thinking  of, 
sleep  won't  come  to  me  unless  I  take  a  few  drops  out  of  that 
bottle.  Don't  keep  it  away  from  me,  Annie:-  it's  the  only  thing 
in  the  world  that  makes  me  forget  myself." 


7V/ 

You    base  no    i 

icthing   horribl. 

girl   of  eighteen   sleeping   with   a    lM.nl,-  of  I;iu<l;muin 
by   li,-r  I-.  night.      We   all    of   us  have  our    t 

•r  mine?" 

"  Y an  do  1  w  ice  tin'  work  I  can,  twice  as  \\  ,•!!  .-. 

You  an-  never  scolded  and  rated  at   for  awk\ 
with  your  needle,  and  1  always  am.     You  can  pay  for  your  room 
every  week,  and  I  am  three  weeks  in  debt  for  mine." 

little  more  practice,"  B&JB  I.    "  and  a   little  more  coin 
and  vou  will  soon  do  better.      You  have  got  all   your  lit 

" 

"1  wish    I  was  at   the   end  of  it,"  says  she.  1>;  in.      M  1 

am  alone  in  the  world,  and  my  life's  no  good  to  me." 

•'  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  foi 
"Ha'.  u  got  me  for  a  friend'.-'     Didn't  I  take  a  tail' 

u  left  your  Mep  mother,  and  came  to  lodge   in  this 
8?     And   haven't    L    been   sisters  with  you  <  Sup- 

sou  are  alone  in  the  world,  am  1  much  better  oil?     I'm  an 
orphan  like  \  on.     I've  almo.-t  as  many  things   in  pawn   as 
and,  if  your  pockets  are  empty,  mine  have  only  got  Dine) 
in  them,  to  la. -4  me  for  all  ti 

"Your  lather  and  mother  were  honest  people,"'  says  Mary,  ob- 
stinately.    "My  mother  ran  away  from  home.  ai:d  died    in  a 
ital.     My  father  was  always  drunk,  and  always  beating 
tep-mother  is  as  good  as  dead,  for  all  she  cares  a 
nly  brother  is  thousands  of  miles  a\\a\  in  f  -.and 

to  me,  and  never  helps  me  with  a   farthing.      My 

M 

•stopped,  and   the  red  flew  into  her   face.     I  knew,  it 
went  on  that    way.  »he  would  only  get  to  th 
sad  story,  and  gi\e  both  herself  and  me  unnecessary  pain. 

••  .I/// sweetheart  is  too  j  oor   to  marry   me.  Mary,"  1  said. 
I'm   not    so  much    to  be  envied  even  there.     But  let's  }_ 
disputing  which  is  worst  oil".     Lie  down  in  bed.  an<; 
you  up.     I'll  put  a  stitch  or  two  into  that  work  in  while 

go  to  sleep." 
Instead  of  doing  Avliat  I  told   her,  she  bur 

iiild  in  some  of  her  ways),  and  hugged  me  so  tight 
round  the  neck  that  she  (|uite  hurt  me.     I  let  1:  till   she 

had   worn  berself  out.  and  was  obliged  to  lie  down.      Kven  • 
her  last  few  word-,  I  e  dropp-  1>  were  such  as  I 

ry,  half  frightened  to  hear. 
••  1  won't  p  MI  long.  An;  i.      "  1  h 

gau  mvlife  \  ily,  and  wretciiedh   1   am  - 

It  was  no  use  lecturing  her  again,  for  she  closed  h 
I  tucked  her  ii|  <>uld.  and  put  \:< 

for   the   bedclothe-    w.  re   scanty,  and    her   hands    • 

I  delicai  fell   asleep  that  it  ciuite 

made  m\ 

:  her.     1  ju-  *  long  enoug 


240  THE     QUEKN    OF    HEARTS. 

was  in  the  land  of  dreams,  then  emptied  the  horrible  laudanum- 
bottle  into  the  grate,  took  up  her  half-done  work,  and,  going  out 
ooftly,  left  her  for  that  night. 

March  6th. — Sent  off  a  long  letter  to  Robert,  begging  and  i-n- 
treating  him  not  to  be  so  down-hearted,  and  not  to  leave  Amer-  ; 
ica  without  making  another  effort.  I  told  him  I  could  bear  any 
trial  except  the  wretchedness  of  seeing  him  come  back  a  help- 
less, broken-down  man,  trying  uselessly  to  begin  life  again  when 
too  old  for  a  change. 

It  was  not  till  after  I  had  posted  my  own  letter  and  read  over 
parts  of  Robert's  again,  that  the  suspicion  suddenly  floated  across 
me,  for  the  first  time,  that  he  might  have  sailed  for  England 
immediately  after  writing  to  me.  There  were  expressions  in 
the  letter  which  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  had  some  such  head- 
long project  in  his  mind.  And  yet  surely,  if  it  were  so,  I 
ought  to  have  noticed  them  at  the  first  reading.  I  can  only  hope 
I  am  wrong  in  my  present  interpretation  of  much  of  what  he 
has  written  to  me — hope  it  earnestly  for  both  our  sakes. 

This  has  been  a  doleful  clay  for  me.  I  have  been  uneasy 
about  Robert  and  uneasy  about  Mary.  My  mind  is  haunted  by 
those  last  words  of  hers:  "I  began  my  life  wretchedly,  and 
wretchedly  I  am  sentenced  to  end  it."  Her  usual  melancholy 
way  of  talking  never  produced  the  same  impression  on  me  that 
I  feel  now.  Perhaps  the  discovery  of  the  laudanum-bottle  is 
the  cause  of  this.  I  would  give  many  a  hard  day's  work  to 
know  what  to  do  for  Mary's  good.  My  heart  warmed  to  her 
when  we  first  met  in  the  same  lodging-house  two  years  ago. 
and,  although  I  am  not  one  of  the  over-affectionate  sort  myself, 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  go  to  the  world's  end  to  serve  that  girl.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  if  I  was  asked  why  I  was  so  fond  of  her,  I  don't 
think  I  should  know  how  to  answer  the  question. 

March  7th. — I  am  almost  ashamed  to  write  it  down,  even  in 
this  journal,  which  no  eyes  but  mine  ever  look  on;  yet  I  must 
honestly  confess  to  myself  that  here  I  am,  at  nearly  one  in 
the  morning,  sitting  up  in  a  state  of  serious  uneasiness,  be- 
cause Mary  has  not  yet  come  home. 

I  walked  with  her  this  morning  to  the  place  where  she  works, 
and  tried  to  lead  her  into  talking  of  the  relations  she  has  got 
who  are  still  alive.  My  motive  in  doing  this  was  to  see  if  she 
dropped  anything  in  the  course  of  conversation  which  might 
suggest  a  way  of  helping  her  interests  with  those  who  are  bound 
to  give  her  all  reasonable  assistance.  But  the  little  I  could  get 
her  to  say  to  me  led  to  nothing.  Instead  of  answering  my 
questions  about  her  step-mother  and  her  brother,  she  persisted  at 
first,  in  the  strangest  way,  in  talking  of  her  father,  who  was 
dead  and  gone,  and  of  one  Noah  Truscott,  who  had  been  the 
worst  of  all  the  bad  friends  he  had,  and  had  taught  him  to  drink 
and  game.  When  1  did  get  her  to  speak  of  her  brother,  she 
only  knew  that  he  had  gone  out  to  a  place  called  Assam,  where 
they  grew  tea.  How  he  was  doing,  or  whether  he  was  there  still, 
she  did  not  seem  to  know,  never  having  heard  a  word  from  him 
for  years  and  years  past. 

As  for  her  step- mother,  Mary  not  unnaturally  flew  into  a  pas- 


'I'll 

:iith,  arnl  could  have  given 
it ;    l.in  to   have  haled  i,<  r.  :ii: 

\    from  home,  and  • 

a  livinL'-  for  herself,     I  !•  r   husband 

h:i  badly  :  md,  after   his  death,  she    (• 

if  on  her  step-da  u  urhter.    I  I 
after  this,  tliat    it  was   impossible  Mary  eoul<; 
it  \\a-thehard   in  -isition.  as   it    i>   of   mi 

she   shoiil  le   on    to   mak.  nt  livelihood,   with 

i\  of   her   relations.     I  .-d    as   much 

this  to  her:   but  I  added  that  f  would  try  to  u;et  In  r  emp' 
with  the  per-ons    for  \\hom  I  work,  who  pay  higher  md 

i    little  more    indue  to   those  under  them    than 

people  to  whom  she  is  now  obliged  to  look  for  supj 

much  more  confidently  than  I  felt  about  being  able  t 
this,  and  I  M  I  thought,  in  Ix-tter  spirits  than  usual.     l 

promised  to  be  back  tonight   to  tea  at  i 

lv  one  in  the  morning,  and  she  is  not  1  .      If  it  • 

any  other  j^irl  I  should  not  feel  in  r  I  should  make  up  my 

mind  that  there  wa  -  extra  work  '  MC  in  a  him 

tin  '.iu^   lier  late,  and  I  should  <;'o  to  1 

so   unfortunate  in    everything  that   happens   to   her.  au«l 
own  melanclioly  talk   abou't    herself   keeps  ha  n  my  mind 

that  I  have   fears   on    i  >\m\  which  would   : 

me  about  any  one  else.     I  inexcusably  silly  to  think  such 

uc'h  more  to  write  it  down:  but  I  have  a  kind  of  n- 
id  upon  me  that  some  accident  — 

"What  does  that  loud  knocking  at  the  street    (I 
tli-  'id  heavy  1<  <  'ine  lod-er  who 

lost  bifi  key,  1  sup;  \nd  yet,  my  heart \ 

1  have  become  all  of  a  sudden! 

and  louder  voices.     I  must  nil: 

what  it  is.      Oh.  Mary'   Mary!   1  hope  1  am  not  goin.u  to  1 
'i  her  fi  il  you,  but  1  feel  sadly  like  it. 

March  9th. 
March  10th. 

rcli  llth. — Oh    me!    all   the  troiibl.  1  in  my 

lif.  nothing  to  tlie  troubles  1  am  in  now.      1 

ha  !e  line  in  ti 

have  1. 

though! 
him 

v  l\[ary!    ti.' 

that  nitrht  \\  li  up  alone  u 

lamity   tliat    has    really   happened.      1 
with    :  full  o!  iid    my  hat. 


242  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

the  grief  and  fear  which  seem  to  unfit  me  entirely  for  perform- 
ing it. 

The  people  of  the  house  were  asleep  and  lazy  on  that  dreadful 
night,  and  I  was  the  first  to  open  the  door.  Never,  never  could 
I  describe  in  writing,  or  even  say  in  plain  talk,  though  it  is  so 
much  easier,  what  I  felt  when  I  saw  two  policemen  come  in, 
carrying  between  them  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  dead  girl, 
and  that  girl  Mary!  I  caught  hold  of  her,  and  gave  a  scream 
that  must  have  alarmed  the  whole  house,  for  frightened  people 
came  crowding  down-stairs  in  their  night-dresses.  There  was  a 
dreadful  confusion  and  noise  of  loud  talking,  but  I  heard  noth- 
ing and  saw  nothing  till  I  had  got  her  into  my  room  and  laid  on 
my  bed.  I  stooped  down,  frantic-like,  to  kiss  her,  and  saw  an 
awful  mark  of  a  blow  on  the  left  temple,  and  felt,  at  the  same 
time,  a  feeble  flutter  of  her  breath  on  my  cheek.  The  discovery 
that  she  was  not  dead  seemed  to  give  me  back  my  senses  again. 
I  told  one  of  the  policemen  where  the  nearest  doctor  was  to  be 
found,  and  sat  down  by  the  bedside  while  he  was  gone,  and 
bathed  her  poor  head  with  cold  water.  She  never  opened  her 
eyes,  or  moved,  or  spoke;  but  she  breathed,  and  that  was  enough 
for  me,  because  it  was  enough  for  life. 

The  policeman  left  in  the  room  was  a  big,  thick- voiced  pomp- 
ous man  with  a  horrible  unfeeling  pleasure  in  hearing  himself 
talk  before  an  assemby  of  frightened,  silent  people.  He  told  us 
how  he  had  found  her,  as  if  he  had  been  telling  a  s'ory  in  a  tap- 
room, and  began  with  saying,  "  I  don't  think  the  young  woman 
was  drunk." 

"  Drunk!  My  Mary,  who  might  have  been  a  born  lady  for  all 
the  spirits  she  ever  touched — drunk!  I  could  have  struck  the 
man  for  uttering  the  word,  with  her  lying — poor  suffering  angel 
— so  white,  and  still,  and  helpless  before  him.  As  it  was,  I  gave 
him  a  look,  but  lie  was  too  stupid  to  understand  it,  and  went 
droning  on  saying  the  same  thing  over  and  over  again  in  the 
same  words.  And  yet  the  story  of  how  they  found  her  was, 
like  all  the  sad  stories  I  have  ever  heard  told  in  real  life,  so  very 
very  short.  They  had  just  seen  her  lying  along  on  the  curb- 
stone a  few  streets  off,  and  had  taken  her  to  the  station-house. 
There  she  had  been  searched,  and  one  of  my  cards,  that  I  give 
to  ladies  who  promise  me  employment,  had  been  found  in  her 
pocket,  and  eo  they  had  brought  her  to  our  house.  This  was  all 
the  man  really  had  to  tell.  There  was  nobody  near  her  when 
she  was  found,  and  no  evidence  to  show  how  the  blow  on  her 
temple  had  been  inflicted. 

What  a  time  it  was  before  the  doctor  came,  and  how  dreadful 
to  hear  him  say,  after  he  had  looked  at  her,  that  he  was  afraid 
all  the  medical  men  in  the  world  could  be  of  no  use  here!  He 
could  not  get  her  to  swallow  anything,  and  the  more  he  tried  to 
bring  her  back  to  her  senses,  the  less  chance  there  seemed  of  his 
succeeding.  He  examined  the  blow  on  her  temple,  and  said  he 
thought  she  must  have  fallen  down  in  a  fit  of  some  sort,  and 
struck  her  head  against  the  pavement,  and  so  have  given  her 
brain  what  he  was  afraid  was  a  fatal  shake.  I  asked  what  was 


7V,  243 

done  if  she  showed  any  return  to  ;  'lit.     lie 

said:      "Send    l'<>r  me  directly;"  and   stopped    for   :i    lit  I  le  while 
ward  stroking  her  hcml  gently  with  his  hand,  and  \\lii 

•  rl.  so  V'1111^'  :in'l  s<)  pretty!"     I  had  felt, 
minute-;  before,   -is   it'  I  could    ha v< •  si  n ick  i h- 
1  felt  no\v  as  it    I  could   have    thrown    my   :irn 

ieck  and  kissed  him.     1  did   put,  out  my  hand 
lookup  his  hat,  and  shook  it.  in  the   friendlie 
hope,  rny  dear,"  he  said,  and  went  out. 

The  rest  of  the  lodgers  followed   him.  all  silent  and  Chocked. 
except   the   inhuman  wretch  who  owns  the  house,  and    li\. 
idleness  on  the  high  rents  lie  wrings  from  poor  people  like 

"She's  three  weeks  in  my  dt  ith  a  frown  and 

an  oath.  "  Where  the  devil  is  my  money  to  come  from  now?" 
Brute!  brute! 

I  had  a  long  cry  alone  with  her  that  seemed  1 
a  little.     She  was  not   the  least  changed   for  the  l>ett«-r   when  I 
had  wiped  away  the  tears  and  could  see  her  clearly  again.     I 
took  up  her  right   hand,  which  lay  nearest  to  me.     If   , 
clinched.     I  tried  to  unclasp  the  lingers,  and  succeeded  at' 
little  time.     Something  dark  fell  out  of  the  palm  of  her  hand  as 
I  straightened  it. 

I  picked  the  thing  up,  and  smoothed  it  out,  and  saw  that   it 
was  the  end  of  a  man's  cravat. 

A  very  old,  rotten,  dingy  strip  of   black  silk,  with  thin  lilac 
lines,  all  blurred  and  deadened  with  dirt,  runniiu  and 

across  the  stuff  in  a  sortcf  trellis-work  pattern.  The  small  end 
of  the  cravat  was  hemmed  in  the  usual  way,  hut  the  other  end 
was  all  jagged,  as  if  the  morsel  then  in  my  hands  had  hn-n  torn 
off  violently  from  the  re^t  of  the  Stuff.  A  chill  ran  all 

s  I  looked  at  it:  for  that  poor,  stained,  crumpled  end  of  a 
cravat  seemed  so  he  sayinir  to  me.  as  though  it  had  been  in 
plain  words:  "  If  she  dies,  she  has  come  to  her  death  In 

MS.  and  1  am  the  witness  of  it." 

I  had  been  frightened  enough  before,  lest  she  should 
denly  and  quietly  without   my  knowing  it.  while  \\  tione 

together:  but  I  got  into  a  perfect    agony  now.  for  fear  this  last 
i    affliction   should   take   me  by  i-urpn-e.      1    d.-n't    MI- 
:ninutes   passed   all  that   wot'ul  night   through  without    my 
getting  up  and  putting  my  cheek  elo-e  toiler  month. 
the  faint    breaths  tluttered  out  of  it.      They  came  and  \ 
the  same  as  at  tirst,  though   the  fright  1  \\  as  in  often   mad 

v  they  were  stilled  forever. 
Just    as   the  church  clock  -triking  four,  I 

5  the  room   door  open.     It 

call  her  in  the  house),  the  maid-of-all  work,     s 
up  in  the  blanket  otT  her  bed:  her  hair  was  all  tuml 

and  her  e\  :  vy  \vit;  me  up  to  the 

bedside  where  I  was  sitting. 

"I've  two  hours  good    b«  fore   1   ' 
her  hoarse.  dn>v, 
turn  at  watching  her.     Yon  n  the 


244  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

rug.     Hero's  my  blanket  for  you.     I  don't  mind  the  cold — it  will 
keep  me  awake." 

"You  are  very  kind -very,  very  kind  and  thoughtful. 
Sally,"  says  I,  "but  I  am  too  wretched  in  my  mind  to  want 
sleep,  or  rest,  or  to  do  anything  but  wait  where  I  am,  and  try 
and  hope  for  the  best." 

"  Then  I'll  wait,  too,"  says  Sally.  "  I  must  do  something;  if 
there's  nothing  to  do  but  waiting,  I'll  wait." 

And  she  sat  down  opposite  me  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  drew 
the  blanket  close  around  her  with  a  shiver. 

"  After  working  so  hard  as  you  do,  I'm  sure  you  mast  want  all 
the  little  rest  you  can  get,"  says  I. 

"  Excepting  only  you,"  says  Sally,  putting  her  heavy  arm  very 
clumsily,  but  very  gently  at  the  same  time,  around  Mary's  feet, 
and  looking  hard  at  the  pale,  still  face  on  the  pillow.  "Except- 
ing you,  she's  the  only  soul  in  this  house  as  never  swore  at  me, 
or  gave  me  a  hard  word  that  I  can  remember.  When  you  made 
puddings  on  Sundays,  and  gave  her  half,  she  always  give  me  a 
bit.  The  rest  of  'em  calls  me  Dusty  Sal.  Excepting  only  you, 
again,  she  always  called  me  Sally,  as  if  she  knowed  me  "in  a 
friendly  way.  I  ain't  no  good  here,  but  I  ain't  no  harm  neither; 
and  I  shall  take  my  turn  at  the  sitting  up — that's  what  I 
shall  do!" 

She  nestled  her  head  down  close  at  Mary's  feet  as  she  spoke 
these  words,  and  said  no  more.  I  once  or  twice  thought  she  had 
fallen  asleep,  but  whenever  I  looked  at  her  her  heavy  eyes  were 
always  wide  open.  She  never  changed  her  position  an  "inch  till 
the  church  clocks  struck  six;  then  she  gave  one  little  squeeze  to 
Mary's  feet  with  her  arm,  and  shuffled  out  of  the  room  without 
a  word.  A  minute  or  two  after,  I  heard  her  down  below,  light- 
ing the.  kitchen  fire  just  as  usual. 

A  little  later,  the  doctor  stepped  over  before  his  breakfast-time 
to  see  if  there  had  been  any  change  in  the  night.  He  only  shook 
his  head  when  he  looked  at  her  as  if  there  was  no  hope.  Having 
nobody  else  to  consult  that  I  could  put  trust  in,  I  showed  him 
the  end  of  the  cravat,  and  told  him  of  the  dreadful  suspicion 
that  had  arisen  in  my  mind  when  I  found  it  in  her  hand. 

"  You  must  keep  it  carefully,  and  produce  it  at  the  inquest," 
he  said.  "  I  don't  know,  though,  that  it  is  likely  to  lead  to  any- 
thing. The  bit  of  stuff  may  have  been  lying  on  the  pavement 
near  her,  and  her  hand  may  have  unconsciously  clutched  it  when 
she  fell.  Was  she  subject  to  fainting-fits  ?" 

"Not  more  so,  sir,  than  other  young  girls  who  are  hard- 
worked  and  anxious,  and  weakly  from  poor  living,"  I  answered. 

"  I  can't  say  that  she  may  not  have  got  that  blow  from  a 
fall,"  the  doctor  went  on.  looking  at  her  temple  again.  "  I  can't 
say  that  it  presents  any  positive  appearance  of  having  been 
inflicted  by  another  person.  It  will  be  important,  however,  to 
ascertain  what  state  of  health  she  was  in  last  night.  Have  you 
any  idea  where  she  was  yesterday  evening  ?" 

I  told  him  where  she  was  employed  at  work,  and  said  I  im- 
agined she  must  have  been  kept  there  later  than  usual. 


77  / 

rounds  among  my  patienK  and    I'll 

inquiri 
I  thankiMl  him,  and  we  parted.     .1 

lie  look'  tin. 

•'  Was., lie  ;  "    he  asked. 

r,  only  my  dear  friend.'' 

He -.nd  nothing  more,  hut  I   heard  him  8\  hut    the 

door  soft  |y.       1'eHiap,  lie  once  had  8  wn,  and 

her?      I '  like  Mary  in  the  fa 

The  doctor  was  hours  gone  a  way,     I  began  to; 

•I'M  and  helples<.  so  mueh    -  n  to  \\  i  hly    that 

rt  might  really  have  sailed    from   Am- 
adou in  tin  me. 

reature  caiac   into  the   room  but   Sally.     T 
time  she  brought   me  some  tea:  the   second  and   third    1 

looked  in  to  866  if  then  .y    change,  and  i   her 

:rd  the   hed.      Iliad  Mown  her  so  si; 

'•d  almost  as  if  this  dreadful  accident  had  struck  her  dumb. 
I  ought  to  have  spoken  to  her.  perhaps,  hut  the 
in  In  iat  daunted  me:  and,  \» 

<\  to  dry  up  my    lips,  as  if  they  \voald    i  able 

ipeaaywo:  i.      I  was  still  tormented  b\  i-ht- 

ful  apprehension  of  the  pas<  ni.^ht.  that  >!ie  mould  die  without 
my  kiiowin--  it— die  without  saying  one  word  to  clear  u 
t'ul  n  "f  this  blow,  and  set  the,  suspieioi, 

which    1  still   ieit  whenever  my  il  on  the  end  of  ti 

at. 

!a>t  the  doctor  came  back. 

"I  think  y.  ly  clear   your  mind    of   any    d 

which   that  bit  of  smitV  may    h;r. 

-  on  i-uppo-ed.  d'  late  by  her   empliiN  !  she 

fainted  in  the  work-room.     They  most    un\\  nd   unkindly 

done,  without  giving  her  any  -timulnni 
«is>he  came    to    her 

under  these  circumstances,  than  that  she  >hon!d  faint 

time  on  her  wa\    here.      A    fall    <>n    the    pavement,  without 

friendly  arm  to  break  it,  might  have  prodti 

jmy  than  the  injury  we  see.      I   believe  that    the    only  ill  i 

to  which  the  poor  girl  w.-  with 

in  the  u 

!;  very  reasonably,  1  own.  s  1.  n»t  ; 

ill.  perl  v ' 

"  M  irl.  I  told  you  not  to  h 

rapt  h  .  and  lifted  up  ' 

\vhile   h- 

doabt  ho\v  si  by    that  blow, 

that  any  words  of  hers  will  e\t  r  en! 

im." 

>t  dead!     ( )h,  sir,  don't 
in  and 
nitioa.     There  is  more  animation  in  I 


246  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

that  flies  than  in  the  life  that  is  left  in  her.  When  you  look  at 
her  now,  try  to  think  that  she  is  in  Heaven.  That  is  the  best  com- 
fort I  can  give  you  after  telling  the  hard  truth." 

I  did  not  believe  him.  I  could  not  believe  him.  So  long  as 
she  breathed  at  all,  so  long  I  was  resolved  to  hope.  Soon  after 
the  doctor  was  gone.  Sally  came  in  again,  and  found  me  listen- 
ing (if  I  may  call  it  so)  at  Mary's  lips.  She  went  to  where  my 
little  hand-glass  hangs  against  the  wall,  took  it  down,  and  gave 
it  to  me. 

"  See  if  her  breath  marks  it,"  she  said. 

"  Yes;  her  breath  did  mark  it,  but  very  faintly.  Sally  cleaned 
the  glass  with  her  apron,  and  gave  it  back  to  me.  As  she  did  so, 
she  half  stretched  out  her  hand  to  Mary's  face,  but  drew  it  in 
again  suddenly,  as  if  she  was  afraid  of  soiling  Mary's  delicate 
skin  with  her  hard,  horny  fingers.  Going  out,  she  stopped  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  and  scraped  away  a  little  patch  of  mud  that  was 
on  one  of  Mary's  shoes. 

"  I  always  used  to  clean  'em  for  her,"  said  Sally,  "  to  save  her 
hands  from  getting  blacked.  May  I  take  'em  off  now,  and  clean 
'em  again  ?" 

I  nodded  my  head,  for  my  heart  was  too  heavy  to  speak. 
Sally  took  the  shoes  off  with  a  slow,  awkward  tenderness,  and 
went  out. 

An  hour  or  more  must  have  passed,  when,  putting  the  glass 
over  her  lips  again,  I  saw  no  mark  on  it.  I  held  it  closer  and 
closer.  I  dulled  it  accidentally  with  my  own  breath,  and 
cleaned  it.  I  held  it  over  her  again.  Oh,  Mary,  Mary,  the 
doctor  was  right!  I  ought  to  have  only  thought  of  you  in 
Heaven! 

Dead,  without  a  word,  without  a  sign — without  even  a  look  to 
tell  the  true  story  of  the  blow  that  killed  her!  I  could  not  call 
to  anybody,  I  could  not  cry,  I  could  not  so  much  as  put  the  glass 
down  and  give  her  a  kiss  for  the  last  time.  I  don't  know  how 
long  I  had  sat  there  with  my  eyes  burning,  and  my  hands  deadly 
cold,  when  Sally  came  in  with  the  slices  cleaned,  and  carried 
carefully  in  her  apron  for  fear  of  a  soil  touching  them.  At  the 
sight  of  that 

I  can  write  no  more.  My  tears  drop  so  fast  on  the  paper  that 
1  can  see  nothing. 


March  12th — She  died  on  the  afternoon  of  the  eighth.  On  the 
morning  of  the  ninth.  I  wrote,  as  in  duty  bound,  to  her  step- 
mother at  Hammersmith,  There  was  DO  answer.  I  wrote  again; 
my  letter  was  returned  to  me  this  morning  unopened.  For  all 
that  woman  cares,  Mary  might  be  buried  with  a  pauper's  funeral; 
but  this  shall  never  be,  if  I  pawn  everything  about  me,  down  to 
the  very  gown  that  is  on  my  back. 

The  bare  thought  of  Mary  being  buried  by  the  workhouse  gave 
me  the  spirit  to  dry  my  eyes,  and  go  to  the  undertaker's,  and  tell 
him  how  I  was  placed.  I  said,  if  he  would  get  me  an  estimate 
of  all  that  would  have  to  be  paid,  from  first  to  last,  for  the 
cheapest  decent  funeral  that  could  be  had,  I  would  undertake  to 


Tl: 

He  g,  i  in 

like  a  common 


funeral   coin}'               .         .         .  I'l 

try         .....        •  044 

lor        ........  014 

Clerk     ........  010 

Sexton     ........  010 

Beadle         ........  010 

Bell        ........  020 

t  of  ground     ......  020 

Total        .....       £384 

If  I  had  the  heart  to  give  any  thought  to  it.  I  should   1 
dined  to  wish  (hat  (lie   Churchj  could    afford    to  do   witho 
many  small  charges   for  burying   poor   people.  to  \\ 
even  shillings  an-  of  consequence.     But  it  i  omplain; 

the    money    must    be  raised  at   once.     The  charitable  doctor  —  a 

man  "himself,  <>r  lu>  would  not  be  living  in  our  neighboi 
—has    subscribed    ten    shillings    toward    tin  and    the 

when  the  inquest  was  over,  added   five  nion-.      Perhaps 
others  may  assist  me.     If  not,  I  have,  fortunately. 
furniture  of  my  own  to  pawn.     And  I  mu  rting 

with  them  without  delay,  for  the  funeral  is  to  be  to-morrow,  the 
thirteenth. 

The  funeral  —  Mary's  funeral!    It  is  well  that  the  straits  and 
difficulties  I  am  in  keep   niy   mind  on   the  stretch.     If  I   had 

grieve,  where  should  I  find  the  courage  to 
morrow? 

Thank  God  they  did  not  want  me  at  the  inquest.     The 
diet  given,  with   the  doctor,  the  policeman,  and    two 
from  the  place  where  she  worked,  for  witnesses,  was  A  -ciil 

h.     The  end  of  the  cravat  was  produce,!,  an  1   th 
said  that  it  v-  linly   enough  t<  spicion:  but   the 

jury,  in  the  .  of    any  positive  evidence.  held 

notion  that   she  had   fainted   and    fallen  down,  a 
the  blow  on  her  temple.      They  p-proved  the   people  wh. 
worked  for  letting  her  home  alone,  without  so  mu  drop 

of  brand  v  to  support  her,  after  she  had  fallen  iir  from 

.exhaustion   before  their  eyes.     The  coroner   added. 

int.  that  In-  thought  the  reproof    was  thoroughly   d 
•  that,  the  cravat-end  was  given  back  to  me  by  m\ 
the  police   saying   that    they  could   ma;. 
with  such  a  slight  clew  to  guide  them.     They  may  thin; 

ier,    and    the  doctor,   and  jury   may   think'    so;  hut.  in 
spite  of  all  that    has  p-issrd.  lam   now   more  firm!;. 
than    ever    that    the!  il'ul    im 

with  that  blow  on  my  poor  or  lo-t  M;n>  'a  temple  which 
to  be  revealed,  and    whi«-h   may  red  tin 

this  very  fragment  of  a  cravat  that  T  found   in  li 
1  reason  for  why  1  think  BO,  b:; 
1  had  f  the   jury  at  the  in 

induced  me  to  consent  to  such  a  verdi  'h. 


248  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

After  I  had  pawned  my  things,  and  had  begged  a  small  ad- 
vance of  wages  at  the  place  where  I  work  to  make  up  what  was 
still  wanting  to  pay  for  Mary's  funeral,  I  thought  I  might  have 
had  a  little  quiet  time  to  prepare  myself  as  I  best  could  for  to- 
morrow. But  this  was  not  to  be.  When  I  got  home  the  land- 
lord met  me  in  the  passage.  He  was  in  liquor,  and  more  brutal 
and  pitiless  in  his  way  of  looking  and  speaking  than  ever  I  saw 
him  before. 

"  So  you're  going  to  be  fool  enough  to  pay  for  her  funeral,  are 
you  ?"  were  his  first  words  to  me. 

I  was  too  weary  and  heart- sick  to  answer;  I  only  tried  to  get 
by  him  to  my  own  door. 

"  If  you  can  pay  for  burying  her,"  he  went  on,  putting  him- 
self in  front  of  me,  "  you  can  pay  her  lawful  debts.  She  owes 
me  three  weeks'  rent.  Suppose  you  raise  the  money  for  that 
next,  and  hand  it  over  to  me  ?  I'm  not  joking,  I  can  promise 
you.  I  mean  to  have  my  rent;  and,  if  somebody  don't  pay  it,  I'll 
have  her  body  seized  and  sent  to  the  workhouse!" 

Between  terror  and  disgust,  I  thought  I  should  have  dropped 
to  the  floor  at  his  feet.  But  I  determined  not  to  let  him  see  how 
he  had  horrified  me,  if  I  could  possibly  control  myself.  So  I 
mustered  resolution  enough  to  answer  that  I  did  not  believe  the 
law  gave  him  any  such  wicked  power  over  the  dead. 

"I'll  teach  you  what  the  law  is!"  he  broke  in;  "  you'll  raise 
money  to  bury  her  like  a  born  lady  when  she's  died  in  my  debt, 
will  you?  And  you  think  I'll  let  my  rights  be  trampled  upon 
like  that,  do  you?  See  if  I  do!  I'll  give  you  till  to-night  to 
think  about  it.  If  I  don't  have  the  three  weeks  she  owes  me 
before?  to-morrow,  dead  or  alive,  she  shall  go  to  the  workhouse!" 

This  time  I  managed  to  push  by  him,  and  get  to  my  own  room, 
and  lock  the  door  in  his  face.  As  soon  as  I  was  alone  I  fell  into 
a  breathless,  suffocating  fit  of  crying  that  seemed  to  be  shaking 
me  to  pieces.  But  there  was  no  good  and  no  help  in  tears;  I  did 
my  best  to  calm  myself  after  a  little  while,  and  tried  to  think 
who  I  should  run  to  for  help  and  protection. 

The  doctor  was  the  first  friend  I  thought  of;  but  I  knew  be  was 
always  out  seeing  his  patients  of  an  afternoon.  The  beadle  was 
the  next  person  who  came  into  my  head.  He  had  the  look  of 
being  a  very  dignified,  unapproachable  kind  of  man  when  he 
came  about  the  inquest;  but  he  talked  to  me  a  little  then,  and 
said  I  was  a  good  girl,  and  seemed,  I  really  thought,  to  pity  me.* 
So  to  him  I  determined  to  apply  in  my  great  danger  and  distress. 

Most  fortunately,  I  found  him  at  home.  When  I  told  him  of 
the  landlord's  infamous  threats,  and  of  the  misery  I  was  suffer- 
ing in  consequence  of  them,  he  rose  up  with  a  stamp  of  his  foot, 
and  sent  for  his  gold-laced  cocked  hat  that  he  wears  on  Sundays, 
and  his  long  cane  with  the  ivory  top  to  it. 

"  I'll  give  it  to  him,"  said  the  beadle.  "  Come  along  with  me, 
my  dear.  I  think  I  told  you  you  were  a  good  girl  at  the  inquest 
— if  I  didn't,  I  tell  you  so  now.  I'll  give  it  to  him!  Come  along 
with  me." 

And  he  went  out,  striding  on  with  his  cocked  hat  and  his 
great  cane,  and  I  followed  him. 


7V/  249 

:ord!"  1:  the  moment    In-    getfl    i 

with  a  tlniinjt  of  his  cam-  on  tin-  lloor.    ••  landlord!"   wi; 
all  around  him  as  it'  he  was  Kiu^  of  England   callin 

•lit  !'' 
The  moment  the  landlord  came  out  ami  saw  who  it 

i  hat,  ami  lie  turned  as  pal. 
"Mow  ,i    frighten    this   poor    iriri:' 

"  Mow  dare  you  hully  her  at  this  sorrowful  time  with  thn 
in;j;  to  do  what  you  Unow  you  can't  do?"     jlow    d;i 

irdly.  bullying,  braggadocio  of  an  unmanly  landlord  ?    I  )on't 
talk  to  me:  I  won't  hear  you.     I'll  pull  you  up,  sir.     It 

ier  word  to  the  young  woman,  I'll  pull  you  up  before  the 
authorities  <>f  this  metropolitan  parish.     I've  had  my  eye  on 
and  the  authorities  have  bad  their  eye  on  you.  and  ti 
has  had  his  eye  on  you.      We  don't   like   the  look  of  your  small 
shop  round   the-    corner;  we  don't  like  the  look  of  some  of  the 

•  iners   who    deal  at  it;  we  don't  like  disorderly  ch 
and   we  don't  by   any  manner  of  means  like   >/on. 

mix  woman  alone.      Hold  your  toi  I'll  pull 

you  up.     If  he  says  another  word,  or  ii;  with  you  a 

my  d  :ie  and  tell  me:  and,  as  sure  as  he's  a  bullying,  un- 

manly braggadocio  of  a  landlord,  I'll  pull  him  up." 

With   those  words  the  beadle  j^ave  a  loud  couj^h  to  clear  his 
throat,  and  another  thump  of  his  cane  on  the  tloor.  and 
striding   out    In-fore  I  could   open  my  lips   to   thank   him.     The 
landlord  slunk  hack  into   his  room  without  a  word.     1 
alone  and  unmolested  at  last,  to  Strenghten  myself  for  the  hard 

trial  of  mv  poor  love's  funeral  to-morrow. 

*  *           *  *  *•  *  »  * 

March  13th. — It  is  all  over.     A  week  ago  a,  head  rested  on  my 

!i.      It  is  laid  in   the  churclixard  now;  the  fresh  earth   lies 
,.r  iipj-  <xrave.     I  and  m  i  friend.  f  my 

rted  in  this  world  forever. 

ilowed  her  funeral  alone  through  the  cruel,  hustlin. 
Sally,  I   thought,   mi^ht   have   otl'ered   to  ^o   with    me.   hui 

into  my  room.     1  did  not  like  to  think 

badly  of   her   for  this,  and  1  am  ^lad    I  restrained  myself:  for, 
i    we    <z;ot    into    the    rhurchxard,   amon^    the    two    or  three 
people  who  were  standing  by  the  open  ^rave  I  saw   Sail; 

-hawl  and  her  patched    black   bonnet.     She  did   not 
lotice  me  till  the  la-t  wonls  of  the  » 
and  i  in  had  ^one  away:  then  she  came  up  a 

to  l: 

"I  couldn't    follow   alon.ur   witi 

iawl,  "  for  1  haven't  a  decent  .-uit  of  cloth, 
h  1  could   L-et    vent    in   crying  for  her   like\oii,  but  1< 
all  the  cr\  i-  M   dnul^ed   ami 

11  think   about    lighting   your  tire 
I'll  do  that,  and  gel   \  OU  a  drop  <  i   tea  to  OOOli 

She  seemed  on  the  point  oi  a   kind    \\ord   or   iv 

Whci  the  beadle  .  ml   me. 

she  \  i  of  him.  and  left  the  churchyard. 

"Here's  m;.  i{)tion  toward  the  funeral." -aid  th. 


250  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

giving  me  back  his  shilling  fee.  "  Don't  say  anything  about  it, 
for  it  mightn't  be  approved  of  in  a  business  point  of  view,  if  it 
came  to  some  people's  ears.  Has  the  landlord  said  anything 
more  to  you?  no.  I  thought  not.  He's  too  polite  a  man  to  give 
me  the  trouble  of  pulling  him  up.  Don't  stop  crying  here,  my 
dear.  Take  the  advice  of  a  man  familiar  with  funerals,  and  go 
home." 

I  tried  to  take  his  advice,  but  it  seemed  like  deserting  Mary  to 
go  away  when  all  the  rest  forsook  her. 

I  waited  about  till  the  earth  was  thrown  in  and  the  man  had 
left  the  place,  then  I  returned  to  the  grave.  Oh,  how  bare  and 
cruel  it  was,  without  so  much  as  a  bit  of  green  turf  to  soften  it! 
Oh,  how  much  harder  it  seemed  to  live  than  to  die,  when  I  stood 
alone  looking  at  the  heavy-piled  lumps  of  clay,  and  thinking  of 
what  was  hidden  beneath  them! 

I  was  driven  home  by  my  own  despairing  thoughts.  The  sight 
of  Sally  lighting  the  fire  in  my  room  eased  my  heart  a  little. 
When  she  was  gone,  I  took  up  Robert's  letter  again  to  keep  my 
mind  employed  on  the  only  subject  in  the  world  that  has  any 
interest  for  it  now. 

This  fresh  reading  increased  the  doubts  I  had  already  felt  rel- 
ative to  his  having  remained  in  America  after  writing  to  me. 
My  grief  and  forlornness  have  made  a  strange  alteration  in  my 
former  feelings  about  his  coming  back.  I  seem  to  have  lost  all 
my  prudence  and  self-denial,  and  to  care  so  little  about  his  pov- 
erty^ and  so  much  about  himself,  that  the  prospect  of  his  return 
is  really  the  only  comforting  thought  I  have  now  to  support  me. 
I  know  this  is  weak  in  me,  and  that  his  coming  back  can  lead 
to  no  good  result  for  either  of  us;  but  he  is  the  only  living  being 
left  to  me  to  love;  and — I  can't  explain  it — but  I  want  to  put 
my  arms  round  his  neck  and  tell  him  about  Mary. 

March  14th. — I  locked  up  the  end  of  the  cravat  in  my  writing- 
desk.  No  change  in  the  dreadful  suspicions  that  the  bare  sight 
of  it  rouses  in  me.  I  tremble  if  I  so  much  as  touch  it. 

March  15th,  16th,  17th.— Work,  work,  work.  If  I  don't  knock 
up,  I  shall  be  able  to  pay  back  the  advance  in  another  week; 
and  then,  with  a  little  more  pinching  in  my  daily  expenses,  I 
may  succeed  in  saving  a  shilling  or  two  to  get  some  turf  to  put 
over  Mary's  grave,  and  perhaps  even  a  few  flowers  besides  to 
grow  round  it. 

March  18th. — Thinking  of  Robert  all  day  long.  Does  this  mean 
that  he  is  really  coming  back  ?  If  it  does,  reckoning  the  dis- 
tance he  is  at  from  New  York,  and  the  time  ships  take  to  get  to 
England,  I  might  see  him  by  the  end  of  April  or  the  beginning 
of  May. 

March  19th. — I  don't  remember  my  mind  running  once  on  the 
end  of  the  cravat  yesterday,  and  I  am  certain  I  never  looked  at  it; 
yet  I  had  the  strangest  dream  concerning  it  at  night.  I  thought  it 
was  lengthened  into  a  long  clew,  like  the  silken  thread  that  led  to 
Rosamond's  Bower.  I  thought  I  took  hold  of  it.  and  followed  it 
a  little  waj1-,  and  then  got  frightened  and  tried  to  go  back,  but 
found  that  I  was  obliged,  in  spite  of  myself,  to  go  an.  It  led  me 
through  a  place  like  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  in  an 


TH 

Id  print  I  remember  in    m 

lollowin^  it  \vitli- 
brou^ht  ii)' 

were    like    Mar 

to   ni  ill:    the    truth    is    at    tin-    (.-nil. 

id   it."     I    hurst    out    crying,  f«r   t! 

;  woke  with  my  In  art  throl 

and  i!  il  wet.      What  is  the  meaning  of  this?     Is  i 

;  wonder,  to  believe  that  di 

true? 

##***#* 

April  30th. — I  have  found  it!     God  knows  to  what  i 

;-tain  as  thai  1  am  sitting  here  bofori 

al    that  1    have  found  vat   from  which   the   end   in 

'Mary's  hand  was  torn.     I  di  d;  hut   the  flut- 

in,  and   the   nervousness  and   uncertainty   J    felt,    pre- 
<>m  noting  down  this  in  iinary  a 

wlien  it  happened.     Let  me  try  if  i 
the  m<'mory  of  it  in  writing  now. 

I  wa>  ^oinsj:  home  rather  late  from  where  I  work,  when  I.  sud- 
denly   remembered    that    I    had    forgotten    to    buy   myself   any 
candles  the  evening  before,  and  that  1  should  be  left  in  the  dark 
if  1  did  not  manage  to  rectify  this   mistake  in  some  way.     The 
shop  close  to  me.  at  which    1   usually  deal,  would   be  shut  up.  1 
knew,  before  I  foil  Id  ^ettoit:   so   I   determined   to  &>  into   the 
'lace  I  pa-^ed  where  candles  were  sold.     This  turned  out  to 
-mall  shop  with  two  counters,  which  did   business  on  one 
side  in  the  -eneral  grocery  way.  and  on  the  other  in  the  ra^,  and 
bottle,  and  iron  line. 

\  ere  several  customers  on  the  grocery  side  when  I  \ 
•  I  waited    on   the  empty   i  !  till  I   could    1" 

Glancing  about    me  here    at  'the    worthless    looking    things    by 
which   T   was   surrounded,   my  eye  was  caught  by  a  bund 

Jyintf  on  the  counter,  as  if  they  had  just    been   brought  in 
and  left  there.      From  mere  idle  curio-ity.  1    looked  t    the 

and  saw  amon^  tiiem  something  like  an  old  cravat.      1 
directly  and    held    ii    under  a   ^a>li^ht.     The   pattern  was 
blurred   lilac   lines,  running   across  and   across  the  din^y  back- 
ground  in  a   trellis-work   form.     I  looked  at   the  end 

mi  off. 

How  1  managed  to  hide  the  breathless  surprise  into  which  this 

very  threw  me    I   cannot    say.  but    I   certainly  contrived   to 

iv  my  voice  .-»mehow,   and    to  a>k    for   my   candlo-  calmly 

i  the  man  and  woman  serving  in  the  shop,  having  disposed 

heir  ot  her  cu-tomers.  inijuired  of  me  what  I  \\ 

the  man   took   down    i  my   brain  was  all    in   a 

whirl  with  trying  to  think  h 

cravat   without  exciting  any   suspin  m.      '  la   little 

•  juickness  on  my  part  in  taking  ad\ 
within   mv  reach  in  a  momvnt.     Tl-.e   man,  ha\  . 

asked   the  woman   for   some  paper  i  ihemin. 

need  a  piece  much  too  small  and  tli.  the  pui 

and  d  I,  when  hecalled  ;iat  tlie 


THE    QUEEN'    OF    HEARTS. 

supply  of  stout  paper  was  all  exhausted.  He  flew  into  a  rage 
with  "her  for  managing  so  badly.  Just  as  they  were  beginning 
to  quarrel  violently,  I  stepped  back  to  the  rag- counter,  took  the 
old  cravat  carelessly  out  of  the  bundle,  and  said,  in  as  light  a 
tone  as  I  could  possibly  assume: 

"  Come,  come,  don't  let  ray  candles  be  the  cause  of  hard 
words  between  you.  Tie  this  ragged  old  thing  round  them  with 
a  bit  of  string,  and  I  shall  carry  them  home  quite  comfortably/' 

The  man  seemed  disposed  to  insist  on  the  stout  paper  being 
produced;  but  the  woman,  as  if  she  was  glad  of  an  opportunity 
of  spiting  him,  snatched  the  candles  away,  and  tied  them  up  in 
a  moment  in  the  torn  old  cravat.  I  was  afraid  he  would  have 
struck  her  before  my  face,  he  seemed  in  such  a  fury;  but,  fort- 
unately, another  customer  came  in,  and  obliged  him  to  put  his 
hands  to  peaceable  and  proper  uses. 

"  Quite  a  bundle  of  all- sorts  on  the  opposite  counter  there,"  I 
said  to  the  woman,  as  I  paid  her  for  the  candles. 

"  Yes,  and  all  hoarded  up  for  sale  by  a  poor  creature  with  a 
lazy  brut*  of  a  husband,  who  lets  his  wife  do  all  the  work  while 
he  spends  all  the  money,"  answered  the  woman,  with  a  ma- 
licious look  at  the  man  by  her  side. 

"  He  can't  surely  have  much  money  to  spend  if  his  wife  has 
no  better  work  to  do  than  picking  up  rags,"  said  I. 

"  It  isn't  her  fault  if  she  hasn't  got  no  better,"  said  the  woman, 
rather  angrily.  "She's  ready  to  turn  her  hand  to  anything. 
Charing,  washing,  laying  out,  keeping  empty  houses — nothing 
comes  amiss  to  her.  She's  my  half-sister,  and  I  think  I  ought 
to  know." 

'•  Did  you  say  she  went  out  charing  ?"  I  asked,  making  believe 
as  if  I  knew  of  somebody  who  might  employ  her. 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  did,"  answered  the  woman;  "and  if  you 
can  put  a  job  into  her  hands,  you'll  be  doing  a  good  turn  to  a 
poor  hard-working  creature  as  wants  it.  She  lives  down  the 
Mews  here  to  the  right — name  of  Horlick,  and  as  honest  a 
woman  as  ever  stood  in  shoe-leather.  Now,  then,  ma'am,  what 
for  you  ?" 

Another  customer  came  in  just  then,  and  occupied  her  atten- 
tion. I  left  the  shop,  passed  the  turning  that  led  down  to  the 
Mews,  looked  up  at  the  name  of  the  street,  so  as  to  know  how  to 
find  it  again,  and  then  ran  home  as  fast  as  I  could.  Perhaps  it 
was  the  remembrance  of  my  strange  dream  striking  me  on  a 
sudden,  or  perhaps  it  was  the  shock  of  the  discovery  I  had  just 
made,  but  I  began  to  feel  frightened  without  knowing  why;  and 
anxious  to  be  under  shelter  in  my  own  room. 

If  Robert  should  come  back!  Oh,  what  a  relief  and  help  it 
would  be  now  if  Robert  should  come  back! 

May  1st. — On  getting  in-doors  last  night,  the  first  thing  I  did, 
after  striking  a  light,  was  to  take  the  ragged  cravat  off  the  can- 
dles, and  smooth  it  out  on  the  table.  I  then  took  the  end  that 
had  been  in  poor  Mary's  hand  out  of  my  writing-desk,  and 
smoothed  that  out  too.  It  matched  the  torn  side  of  the  cravat 
exactly.  I  put  them  together,  and  satisfied  myself  that  there 
was  not  a  doubt  of  it. 


T8. 

id  T  do-. 

and  find  out  i 

.   tn  my    in 
thought  I  saw  in  my  dream — the  clew  that  I  wa 

I  determined  to  go  to  Mrs.  Horlick  this  e\  ,iy  re- 

turn from  work. 

I  found  the  Mews  easily.     A  crook-backed  dwarf  of  a  man 
was  loungin  ner  of  it  smoking  i  iking 

<>t  inquire  of  him  where  Mrs.  Horliek  lived,  but 
went   do\\n  the  Mews  till  I  met  with  a  woman,  an 
me  to  the  right  number.     I  knocked 

Mrs.  Horlick  herself — a  lean,  ill-tempered,  miserable-looking 
woman-  :  ed  it.     I  told  her  at  once  that  1  had  con 

what  her  terms  were  for  charing.     She  stared  at  me  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  answered  my  question  civilly  enough. 

ou  look  surprised  at  a  stranger  like  me  finding  you  o 
1.     "I  first  came  to  hear  of  you  last  night,  from  a  rel 
of  yours,  in  rather  an  odd  \\ 

i  I  told  her  all  that  had  happened  in  the  chandler's  si 
^ing  in  the  bundle  of  rags,  and   the  circumstance  o: 

home  the  candles  in  the  old  torn  cravat,  as  often  as 
:  ble. 

"  It's  the  first  time  I've  heard  of  anything  belonging  to  him 
turning  out  any  use."  said  Mrs.  Horlick,  bitterly. 

"What!  the  spoiled  old  neck-handkerchief  belonged  to  > 
husband,  did  it  ?"  said  I.  at  a  venture. 

"  Yes:  I  pitched  his  rotten  rag  of  a  neck'andkercher  into  the 
bundle  along  with   the  rest,  and  I  wished  I  could  have  pi; 
him  in  after  it."  said  Mrs.  Horlick.     "  I'd  sell  him  cheap  a 
rag-shop.     There  he  stands,  smoking  his  pipe  at  tin  t   the 

Mews,  out  of  work  for  weeks  past,  the   idlest    humpbacked   pig 

•  TIT  i 

ID  all  London. 

•pointed  to  the  man  whom  I  had  passed  on  enterim 
My  cheeks  began  to  burn  and  my  knees   to  tiembl> 
I  knew  that  in  tracing  the  crav.i 
a  step  toward  a   fresh  discover  diet!   Mrs.   Ilori. 

and  said  T  would  write  and  mention  t;  n  which 

anted  h 

f  been  told  put  a  thought   into  my  mind  t! 
id  to  follow  out.     I    have  heard   p  .Ik    of    ! 

led,  and  1  I  iiave  heard  them  say  the\   felt  - 

My  he;i 
;>llt    the   I 

d  man,  still  smoking  hi>  pipe  in  hi 

Been.  'ait   that:    1  e«.nld  think  of  nothing  but  rhe 

the  b  T  lost    Mar\ 

ueaded.  foi  as  1  came  < 

.  ithoiit     ineanin-    it.      The   HIM 

had  Keen  m>  idea  ii.  me  of  speaking  to  him.    I  did  n< 
in  what  way  it  would    I 

it  h    him.   soi 
'id  to  m 


254  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

sidering  beforehand,  without  thinking  of  consequences,  without 
knowing,  I  may  almost  say,  what  words  I  was  uttering  till  the 
instant  when  they  rose  to  rny  lips. 

"When  your  old  neck-tie  was  torn,  did  you  know  that  one 
end  of  it  went  to  the  rag-shop,  and  the  other  fell  into  my 
hands?" 

I  said  these  bold  words  to  him  suddenly,  and,  as  it  seemed, 
without  my  own  will  taking  any  part  in  them. 

He  started,  stared,  changed  color.  He  was  too  much  amazed 
by  my  sudden  speaking  to  find  an  answer  for  me.  When  he  did 
open  his  lips,  it  was  to  say,  rather  to  himself  than  me: 

"  You're  not  the  girl." 

"  No,"  I  said,  with  a  strange  choking  at  my  heart,  "  I'm  her 
friend." 

By  this  time  he  had  recovered  his  surprise,  and  he  seemed  to 
be  aware  that  he  had  let  out  more  than  he  ought. 

"You  may  be  anybody's  friend  you  like,"  he  said,  brutally, 
"  so  long  as  you  don't  come  jabbering  nonsense  here.  I  don't 
know  you,  and  T  don't  understand  your  jokes." 

He  turned  quickly  away  from  me  when  he  had  said  the  last 
words.  He  had  never  once  looked  fairly  at  me  since  I  first  spoke 
to  him. 

Was  it  his  hand  that  had  struck  the  blow  ? 

I  had  only  sixpence  in  my  pocket,  but  I  took  it  out  and  fol- 
lowed him.  If  it  had  been  a  five-pound  note  I  should  have 
done  the  same  in  the  state  I  was  in  then. 

"  Would  a  pot  of  beer  help  you  to  understand  me  ?"  I  said,  and 
offered  him  the  sixpence. 

"  A  pot  ain't  no  great  things,"  he  answered,  taking  the  six- 
pence doubtfully. 

"  It  may  lead  to  something  better,"  I  said. 

His  eyes  began  to  twinkle,  and  he  came  close  to  me.  Oh,  how 
my  legs  trembled — how  my  head  swam! 

"  This  is  all  in  a  friendly  way,  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

I  nodded  my  head.  At  that  moment  I  could  not  have  spoken 
for  worlds. 

"  Friendly,  of  course,"  he  went  on  to  himself,  "  or  there  would 
have  been  a  policeman  in  it.  She  told  you,  I  suppose,  that  I 
wasn't  the  man  ?" 

I  nodded  my  head  again.  It  was  all  I  could  do  to  keep  my- 
self standing  upright. 

"  I  suppose  it's  a  case  of  threatening  to  have  him  up,  and  make 
him  settle  it  quietly  for  a  pound  or  two  ?  How  much  for  me  if 
you  lay  hold  of  him  ?" 

"  Half." 

I  began  to  be  afraid  that  he  would  suspect  something  if  I  was 
still  silent.  The  wretch's  eyes  twinkled  again,  and  he  came  yet 
closer. 

"I  drove   him  to  the  Red  Lion,  corner  of  Dodd  Street 
Rudgely  Street.     The  house  was  shut  up,  but  he  w;is  let  in  at 
the  jug  and  bottle  door,  like  a  man  who  was  known  to  the  land- 
lord.    That's  as  much  as  I  can  tell  you,  and  I'm  certain  I'm 
right.     He  was  the  last  fare  I  took  up  at  night.    The  next  morn- 


T  cribl  and  his 

crook-)'  nan  had  be* 

11  Why  don't  you  sj>< >ak  ? '  he  asked,  suspiciously.     "  Has  she 
been  telling  you  about  me?    What  did  she  say 

.me  lioi. 

AThat  ought  she  to  have  said  ?" 

"  She  ought  to  have  said  my  fare  was  drunk,  and  she 
the  v  oing  to  get  in  the  cab.     That's  wha 

it  to  have  said  to  begin  with." 

"  Well,  after,  my  fare,  by  way  of  larking  with  her,  puts  out 
<r  to  trip  herup,  and  she  stumbles  and  c 

It',  and  tears  off  one  of  the  limp  ends  of  my  r 
•  What  do  you  mean  by  that,  you  brute?  says  she,  turn- 

s  soon  as  she  was  steady  ou  her  legs,  to  my 
my  fare  to  her,  'I   means  to  teach  you  to  keep 
>ur  head.'    And  he  ups  with  his  tist,  arnl 

What  are  you  looking  at  me  like  that  for? 
How  do  you  think  a  man  of  my  size  take  her  par: 

a  man  big  enough  to  have  eaten  me  up?    Look  as  mud 
in  my  place  you  would  have  done  what  I  done — dre 
i  lie  shook  his  fist  at  you,  and  swore  he'd  be  the  death  of 
you  if  you  did'nt  start  your  horse  in  no  time." 

I  sa\\  he  was  working  himself  up  into  a  rage;  but  I  could  not, 
if  my  life  had  depended  on  it,  have  stood  near  him  or  look* 
him  any  longer.     I  just  managed  to  stammer  out  that  I  had 

walking  a  long  way,  and  that,  not  being  used  to  much  « 

i  faint  and  giddy  with  fatigue.     He  only  changed  from 
sulky  when  I  made  that  excuse.     I  got  a  little  further 
from  him,  and  then  added  that  if  he  would  beat  ; 

•  •ning  I  should  have  something  more  to  say 
and  something  more   to   give  him.     He  grumbled   a   few  sus- 

-  in  answer  about  doubting  wh.  should 

.'  come  hack.      Fortunately,  at  that   moment,  a   policeman 
1  on    the  opposite  side  of"  the  way.      He  slunk  down  the 
•liately.  -md  1  \\ 

pt    that    I   think   I   ran  the 
he  way.     Sally  opened  the   door,  and 
anything   wag  the    matter    the'  moment    she   saw    my 
I,  "  Nothing— nothing." 

aid: 

•ih  your  hair  u  hit.  and  put  \ 
iitli-man  in  there  \vaiti> 

mid:  I  knew  who  it  VI 
icd  into  the  room  like  a  mad  woman. 

nt  went  out  to  him  in  tho.-e  two  little 

Anne.  ha>  anything  h  ill  V 

II  Mary!   my  poor.  \<»\ .  ami 

:    I  con].  I    fell  01 

Lisfortunes  and  disai>i>ointm<  him 


256  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 

a  little,  but  toward  rae  lie  is  unaltered.  He  is  as  good,  as  kind, 
as  gently  and  truly  affectionate  as  ever.  I  believe  no  other  man 
in  the  world  could  have  listened  to  the  story  of  Mary's  death 
with  such  tenderness  and  pity  as  he.  Instead  of  cutting  me 
short  anywhere,  he  drew  me  on  to  tell  more  than  I  had  intended; 
and  his  first  generous  words  when  I  had  done  were  to  assure 
me  that  he  would  see  himself  to  the  grass  being  laid  and  the 
flowers  planted  on  Mary's  grave.  I  could  almost  have  gone 
on  my  knees  and  worshiped  him  when  he  made  me  that  promise. 

Surely  this  best  and  kindest,  and  noblest  of  men  cannot  always 
be  unfortunate!  My  cheeks  burn  when  I  think  that  be  has  come 
back  with  only  a  few  pounds  in  his  pocket,  after  all  bis  bard  and 
honest  struggles  to  do  well  in  America.  They  must  be  bad 
people  there  when  such  a  man  as  Robert  cannot  get  on  among 
them.  He  now  talks  calmly  and  resignedly  of  trying  for  any 
one  of  the  lowest  employments  by  which  a  man  can  earn  his 
bread  honestly  in  this  great  city — he  who  knows  French,  who 
can  write  so  beautifully!  Oh,  if  the  people  who  have  places  to 
give  away  only  knew  Robert  as  well  as  I  do,  what  a  salary  he 
would  have,  what  a  post  he  would  be  chosen  to  occupy! 

I  am  writing  these  lines  alone,  while  he  has  gone  to  the  Mews 
to  treat  with  the  dastardly,  heartless  wretch  with  whom  I  spoke 
yesterday. 

Robert  says  the  creature — I  won't  call  him  a  man — must  be 
humored  and  kept  deceived  about  poor  Mary's  end,  in  order  that 
we  may  discover  and  bring  to  justice  the  monster  whose  drunken 
blow  was  the  death  of  her.  I  shall  know  no  ease  of  mind  till  her 
murderer  is  secured,  and  till  I  am  certain  that  he  will  be  made 
to  suffer  for  his  crimes.  I  wanted  to  go  with  Robert  to  the 
Mews,  but  he  said  it  was  best  that  he  should  carry  out  the  rest  of 
the  investigation  alone,  for  my  strength  and  resolution  had  been 
too  hardly  taxed  already.  He  said  more  words  in  praise  of  me 
for  what  I  have  been  able  to  do  up  to  this  time,  which  I  am  al- 
most ashamed  to  write  down  with  my  own  pen.  Besides,  there 
is  no  need:  praise  from  his  lips  is  one  of  the  things  that  I  can 
trust  my  memory  to  preserve  to  the  latest  day  of  my  life. 

May  3d. — Robert  was  very  long  last  night  before  he  came  back 
to  tell  me  what  he  had  done.  He  easily  recognized  the  hunch- 
back at  the  corner  of  the  Mews  by  my  description  of  him;  but 
he  found  it  a  hard  matter,  even  with  the  help  of  money,  to  over- 
come the  cowardly  wretch's  distrust  of  him  as  a  stranger  and  a 
man.  However,  when  this  had  been  accomplished,  the  main 
difficulty  was  conquered.  The  hunchback,  excited  by  the  prom- 
ise of  more  money,  went  at  once  to  the  Red  Lion  to  inquire 
about  the  person  whom  he  had  driven  there  in  his  cab.  Robert 
followed  him,  and  waited  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  The  tid- 
ings brought  by  the  cabman  were  of  the  most  unexpected  kind. 
The  murderer — I  can  write  of  him  by  no  other  name — had  fallen 
ill  on  the  very  night  when  he  was  driven  to  the  Red  Lion,  had 
taken  to  his  bed  there  and  then,  and  was  still  confined  to  it  at 
that  very  moment.  His  disease  was  of  a  kind  that  is  brought 
on  by  excessive  drinking,  and  that  affects  the  mind  as  well  as 
the  body.  The  people  at  the  public  house  called  it  the  Horrors. 


THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

Hearing  these  things,  Robert  determined  to  see  if  he  could  not 
find  .  '.\%  and  inquiring  at 

iiiblie  lions,',  in  the 

man  in  bed  !  h-  made  two  important 

In-    found  out  Hie  name   and   addre:-.s  of  the  <  i  n  at- 

odly,  he  entrapped   the  barmaid  into  : 
ing  the    murderous  wretch    by  his  name.     Tin's   last  <i 
adds  an  unspeakably  fearful  interest  to  the  dreadful  mi 
of  Mary's  death.     Noah  Truscptt,  as  she  told  me  herself  in  the 
onversation  I  ever  had  with  her,  was  the  name  of  the  man 

run  ken  example  ruined  her  father,  and  Noah  Tru- 
is  also  the  name  of  the  man  whose  drunken  fury  killed 
There  is  something  that  makes  one  shudder,  something  super- 
natural in  this  awful  fact.    Robert  agrees  with  me  that  the  hand 
of  Providence  must  have  guided  my  steps  to  that  shop  from 
which  all  the  discoveries  since  made  took  their  rise.     He 
he  believes  we  are  the  instruments  of  effecting  a  righteous  retri- 
bution; and,  if  he  spends   his  last  farthing,  he  will  have  the 
investigation  brought  to  its  full  end  in  a  court  of  justice. 

May  4th. — Robert  went  to-day  to  consult  a  lawyer  whom  he 
knew  in  former  times.  The  lawyer  was  much  interested,  though 
not  so  seriously  impressed  as  he  ought  to  have  been  by  the  story 
of  Mary's  death  and  of  the  events  that  have  followed  it.  He 
gave  Robert  a  confidential  letter  to  take  to  the  doctor  in  attend- 
ance on  the  double-dyed  villain  at  the  Red  Lion.  Robert 
the  letter,  and  called  again  and  saw  the  doctor,  who  said  his 
patient  was  getting  better,  and  would  most  likely  be  up  again 
in  ten  days  or  a  fortnight.  This  statement  Robert  com  mm. 
ed  to  the  lawyer,  and  The  lawyer  has  undertaken  to  have  the 
public  house  properly  watched",  and  the  hunchback  (who  is  the 
most  important  witness)  sharply  looked  after  for  the  next  fort- 
night, or  longer  if  necessary.  'Here,  then,  the  progress  of  this 
dreadful  business  stops  for  awhile. 

May  5th. — Robert  has  got  a  little  temporary  employment  in 
ing  for  his  friend  the  lawyer.     I  am  working  harder  than 
at  my  needle,  to  make  up  for  the  time  that  has  been  lost 
lately. 

May  6th. — To-day  was  Sunday,  and  Robert  proposed  that  we 
should  go  and  look  at  Mary's  grave.  He,  who  forgets  nothing 
where  a  kindness  is  to  be  done,  has  found  time  to  perform  the 
promise  he  made  to  me  on  the  night  when  we  first  met.  The 
grave  is  already,  by  his  order*,  covered  with  turf,  and  planted 
round  with  shni  and  a  low  1 

ided.  to  make  the  |  >k  worthier  of  my  poor 

ling  who  is  beneath  it.     Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  live  lon.u  1  am 

married  to  Robert!     1  want  so  much  time  him  all  my 

gratitude! 

y  20th.— A  hard  trial  to  my  courage  to-day.     I  have  \i 
evidence  at  the  police-office,  and  have  seen  the  monster  who 
murdered  her. 

add  only  look  at  him  once.     I  could  just  see  that  he  was 
a  giant  in  size,  and  that  he  kept  his  dull,  I 
turned  toward  the  witne-s-box.  and   hi- 


258  THE    QUEEN    OF    HEARTS. 

staring  on  me.  For  an  instant  I  tried  to  confront  that  look:  for 
an  instant  I  kept  my  attention  fixed  on  him — on  his  blotched 
face — on  the  short,  grizzled  hair  above  it — on  his  knotty,  mur- 
derous right  hand,  hanging  loose  over  the  bar  in  front  of 
him  like  the  paw  of  a  wild  beast  over  the  edge  of  its  den. 
Then  the  horror  of  him — the  double  horror  of  confronting  him, 
in  the  first  place,  and  afterward  of  seeing  that  he  was  an  old 
man,  overcame  me,  and  I  turned  away,  faint,  sick,  and  shudder- 
ing. I  never  faced  him  again;  and,  at  the  end  of  my  evidence 
Robert  considerately  took  me  out. 

When  we  met  once  more  at  the  end  of  the  examination,  Rob- 
ert told  me  that  the  prisoner  never  spoke  and  never  changed 
his  position.  He  was  either  fortified  by  the  cruel  composure  of 
a  savage,  or  his  faculties  had  not  yet  thoroughly  recovered  from, 
the  disease  that  had  so  lately  shaken  them. "  The  magistrate 
seemed  to  doubt  if  he  was  in  his  right  mind;  but  the  evidence 
of  the  medical  man  relieved  this  uncertainty,  and  the  prisoner 
was  committed  for  trial  on  a  charge  of  manslaughter. 

Why  not  on  a  charge  of  murder  ?  Robert  explained  the  law 
to  me  when  I  asked  that  question.  I  accepted  the  explanation, 
but  it  did  not  satisfy  me.  Mary  Mallinson  was  killed  by  a  blow 
from  the  hand  of  Noah  Truscott.  That  is  murder  in  the  sight 

of  God;  why  not  murder  in  the  sight  of  the  law  also? 

#  *     ;        *  *  #  #  * 

June  18th. — To-morrow  is  the  day  appointed  for  the  trial  at 
the  Old  Bailey. 

Before  sunset  this  evening  I  went  to  look  at  Mary's  grave. 
The  turf  has  grown  so  green  since  I  saw  it  last,  and  the  flowers 
are  springing  up  so  prettily.  A  bird  was  perched  dressing  his 
feathers  on  the  low  white  headstone  that  bears  the  inscription 
of  her  name  and  age.  I  did  not  go  near  enough  to  disturb  the 
little  creature.  He  looked  innocent  and  pretty  on  the  grave,  as 
Mary  herself  was  in  her  lifetime.  When  he  flew  away  I  went 
and  sat  for  a  little  while  by  the  headstone,  and  read  the  mourn- 
ful lines  on  it.  Oh,  my  love!  my  love!  what  harm  or  wrong 
had  you  ever  done  in  this  world  that  you  should  die  at  eighteen, 
by  a  blow  from  a  drunkard's  hand  ? 

June  19th. — The  trial.  My  experience  of  what  happened  at 
it  is  limited,  like  my  experience  of  the  examination  at  the  po- 
lice-office, to  the  time  occupied  in  giving  my  own  evidence. 
They  made  me  say  much  more  than  I  said  before  the  magistrate. 
Between  examination  and  cross-examination  I  had  to  go  into  al- 
most all  the  particulars  about  poor  Mary  and  her  funeral  that  I 
have  written  in  this  journal,  the  jury  listening  to  every  word  I 
spoke  with  the  most  anxious  attention.  At  the  end  the  judge 
said  a  few  words  to  me  approving  of  my  conduct,  and  then 
there  was  a  clapping  of  hands  among  the  people  in  court.  I  was 
so  agitated  and  excited  that  I  trembled  all  over  when  they  let 
me  go  out  into  the  air  again. 

I  looked  at  the  prisoner  both  when  I  entered  the  witness-box 
and  whewl  left  it.  The  lowering  brutality  of  his  face  was  un- 
changed, but  his  faculties  seemed  to  be  more  alive  and  observ- 
ant than  they  were  at  the  police  office.  A  frightful  blue  change 


THE 

had  to: 

liands  b<  And  \\  hen  I  }>;, 

\  ay  out 
"e  or  to  strike  me  I  can't   - 

and  upright  again   by  the  tu 
i;n.     WhiU-  th< 
us  that  1 
ror  }>•  ;ntil  at  last,  ju 

•  •r  appointed  to  defend  him  ienly 

out,  in  a  voice  that  startled  e\>  up  to  the,  very  j 

on  the  bench,  "Stop!" 

a  pause,  and  all  Iced  at  him.     The  persj 

pouring  over  his  face  like  water,  and  1 

utli  signs  with  his  liands  to  the  judge  opp 

d  out:  "  I've  heen   the  ruin  of  th< 

the  child.     Hang  me  before  I  do    mm 

s  sake,  out  of  the  way!"    As  soon  a<  tl. 
I    by  this  extraordinary  interruption  had 

.  and  there  followi  d  a  1  ibout  w! 

of  sound  mind  or  not.     The  matter  was  lelt  to  the  jury  to 

tlieir  verdict.     They  found  him  guilty  of  the  < 
laughter,  without  the  excuse  of  insani: 

.  and  condemned  to  transportation  for  life.     All  h< 
on  h<  t'til  sentence.  \\ : 

.  ig  me  before  I  do  more  harm!     Hang  me,  for  ( 
lit  of  the  way!" 

June  20th.— I  made  y«  .-id ness  of  he 

I  have  not  been  better  in  my  spirits  to-day.     It  is  somethii 
brought    tile   murderer    to    the    punishment    that    h> 
lint  the  knowledge  that  this  most  right 

oniplisiied   brin.  insolation  with  it.     Tli. 

punish  Noab  Truscott  tor  hi-  crime,  but  can  it 

Mullinsou  from   her  last    rest  in--  place   in   the  eh 

While  writing  of  the  law,  I  ou-ht  to  record  that  tlie  ) 

••.  ho   allowed    Marx   to   be   stni' 
without  making  an  attempt  to  defend  I; 
with  perfect  impunity.  man  \vh. 

the  trial  d 
mitted  )  for  which    the  lau 

him.  and    I 
-Unite    tlie    moment    he    lefl    tl: 

I  h;  -\  ritten  these  l'e\\  line-;,  am' 

tl 
i  his  wa; 


260  THE    QUEEN   OF    HEARTS. 

asked  for  Anne  Rodway.  On  hearing  that  I  was  the  person  in- 
quired for,  he  requested  five  minutes'  conversation  with  me.  T 
showed  him  into  the  little  empty  room  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  waited,  rather  surprised  and  fluttered,  to  hear  what  he  had 
to  say. 

He  was  a  dark  man,  with  a  serious  manner,  and  a  short,  stern 
way  of  speaking.  I  was  certain  that  he  was  a  stranger,  and  yet 
there  seemed  something  in  his  face  not  unfamiliar  to  me.  He 
began  by  taking  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket,  and  asking  me  if 
I  was  the  person  who  had  given  evidence  at  the  trial  of  Noah 
Truscott  on  a  charge  of  manslaughter.  I  answered  immediately 
that  I  was. 

"  I  have  been  for  nearly  two  years  in  London  seeking  Mary 
Mallinson,  and  always  seeking  her  in  vain,"  he  said.  "  The  first 
and  only  news  I  have  had  of  her  I  found  in  the  newspaper  report 
of  the  trial  yesterday." 

He  still  spoke  calmly,  but  there  was  something  in  the  look  of 
his  eyes  which  showed  me  that  he  was  suffering  in  spirit.  A 
sudden  nervousness  overcame  me.  and  I  was  obliged  to  sit 
down. 

"You  knew  Mary  Mallinson,  sir?"  I  asked,  as  quietly  as  I 
could. 

"  I  am  her  brother." 

I  clasped  my  hands  and  hid  my  face  in  despair.  Oh,  the  bit- 
terness of  heart  with  which  I  heard  him  say  those  simple  words. 

"  You  were  very  kind  to  her,"  said  the  calm,  tearless  man. 
"  In  her  name  and  for  her  sake,  I  thank  you." 

"  Oh,  sir,"  I  said,  "  why  did  you  never  write  to  her  when  you 
were  in  foreign  parts  ?" 

"I  wrote  often,"  he  answered;  "but  each  of  my  letters  con- 
tained a  remittance  of  money.  Did  Mary  tell  you  she  had  a 
step-mother?  If  she  did,  you  may  guess  why  none  of  my  let- 
ters were  allowed  to  reach  her.  I  now  know  that  this  woman 
robbed  my  sister.  Has  she  lied  in  telling  me  that  she  was  never 
informed  of  Mary's  place  of  abode  ?" 

I  remembered  that  Mary  had  never  communicated  with  her 
step-mother  after  the  separation,  and  could  therefore  assure  him 
that  the  woman  had  spoken  the  truth. 

He  paused  for  a  moment  after  this,  and  sighed.  Then  he  took 
out  a  pocket-book,  and  said: 

"I  have  already  arranged  for  the  payment  of  any  legal  ex- 
penses that  may  have  been  incurred  by  the  trial,  but  I  have  still 
to  reimburse  you  for  the  funeral  charges  which  you  so  generously 
defrayed.  Excuse  my  speaking  bluntly  on  this  subject;  I  am 
accustomed  to  look  on  all  matters  where  money  is  concerned 
purely  as  matters  of  business." 

I  saw  that  he  was  taking  several  bank-notes  out  of  the  pocket- 
book,  and  stopped  him. 

"  I  will  gratefully  receive  back  the  little  money  I  actually 
paid,  sir,  because  I  am  not"  well  off,  and  it  would  be  an  ungra- 
cious act  of  pride  in  me  to  refuse  it  from  you,"  I  said;  "but  I 
see  you  handling  bank-notes,  any  one  of  which  is  far  beyond  the 
amount  you  have  to  repay  me.  Pray,  put  them  back,  sir.  What 


I  tli.i  .id  for  i: 

1  hiinke.i  ih;il.  ai 

had  hit ;  saw  tli 

ihe  better  of  him. 
1  and  squeezed  it  hard. 
•'  1  !><•-  \i. ui  pardon."  he  said;  "I  beg  your  pardon,  with  all 

ilence  between  us,  for.  I  was  crying,  and  I  lx>li 
at  In-art,  he  was  crying  too.     At  la^t   he  dropped    my  h 

ack.  by  an  ell'ort,  to  his  former  calmne 
0  one  helon^in.u  to  you  to  whom.  I  can  be 
he  asked.      '•  I   see  among   thw  witnesses  on    the   trial    the 
a  young  man  who  appears  to   have  assisted   you  in   the 
inquiries  which  led  to  the  prisoner's  conviction.  Ishearelati 
ir— at  least,  not  now — but  I  hope " 

"  I  hope  that  he  may,  one  day,  be  the  nearest  and  dearest  re- 
lation to  me  that  a  \\oman  can  have."  I  said  those  words  boldly. 
because  I  was  afraid  of  his  otherwise  taking  some  wrong  view  of 
the  connection  between  Robert  and  me. 

"One  day?"  he  repeated.  "One  day  may  be  a  long  tiuie 
hence." 

"•  We  are  neither  of  us  well  off,  sir,"  I  said.  "  One  day  means 
the  day  when  we  are  a  little  richer  than  we  are  now." 

4  1  s  the  young  man  educated?  Can  he  produce  testimonials 
to  his  character?  Oblige  me  by  writing  his  name  and  address 
on  the  back  of  that  card." 

When  1  had  obeyed,  in  a  handwriting  which  I  am  afraid  did 
me  no  credit,  he  took  out  another  card,  and  gave  it  to  i 

"I  shall    leave    I'.n-laiid    tomorrow."    he    said.      "  Thei 
nothing  now  to  keep  me  in  my  own  country.     If  you  are  ever  in 
any  difficulty  or  distress  (which  I  pray  God  you  may  never  be), 
my  London  agent,  whose  address  you  have  th< 
l>ed  and  looked  at  me  attentively,  then  took  i 
iu. 

"  Where  is  she  buried  ?"  he  said,  suddenly,  in  a  quick  whi 
turning  his  head  away.  1 

I  told  him.  and  added  that  we  had  made  the  grave  as  beaut  ii'u 
e  could  with  grass  and  11o\\  > 
iw  his  lips  whiten  and  tremble. 

:>le>>and    reward   you!"  he  said,  and   d> 
him  quickly  and  kissed  ;  ead.     I  wasqui: 

sank  down   and  hid  my    face    on   tin  When   I  look* 

again  he  was  ^one. 

June  35th,  ls-ii.— 1  write  these  lines  on  mj 
when  lie  than  a  year  has  pa-  t  return 

England. 

ary  was  increased  yesterday  to  one  hundred  and 
pounds  a  year.    If  I  only  knew  u 
writ*  1  him  of  our  present   happm.  -        Bui 

tion  which  his  kindness  procured  !'<>; 
been  waiting  vainly  for  the  day  that  has  iiu*. 


I  am  to  work  at  home  for  the  future,  and  Sally  is  to  help  us  in 
our  new  abo-le.  If  Mary  could  have  lived  to^ee  this  day!  T  am 
not  ungrateful  lor  my  blessings;  but  oh,  how  I  miss  that  sweet 
face  on  this  morning  of  all  others! 

I  got  up  to-day  early  enough  to  go  alone  to  the  grave,  and  to 
gather  the  nosegay  that  now  lies  before  rne  from  the  flowers  that 
grow  around  it.  I  shall  put  it  in  my  bosom  when  Robert  comes 
to  fetch  me  to  the  church.  Mary  would  have  been  my  bride- 
maid  if  she  had  lived;  and  I  can't  forget  Mary,  even  on  my  wed- 
ding day. 


THE  NIGHT. 

THE  last  words  of  the  last  story  fell  low  and  trembling  from 
Owen's  lips.  He  waited  for  a  moment  while  Jessie  dried  the 
tears  which  Anne  Rodway's  simple  diary  had  drawn  from  her 
warm  young  heart,  then  closed  the  manuscript,  and  taking  her 
hand,  patted  it  in  his  gentle,  fatherly  way. 

"You  will  be  glad  to  hear,  my  love,"  he  said,  "that  I  can 
speak  from  personal  experience  of  Anne  Rodway's  happiness. 
She  came  to  live  in  my  parish  soon  after  the  trial  at  which  she 
appeared  as  chief  witness,  and  I  was  the  clergyman  who  mar- 
ried her.  Mouths  before  that  I  knew  her  story,  and  had  read 
those  portions  of  her  diary  which  you  have  just  heard.  When 
I  made  her  my  little  present  on  her  wedding-day,  and  when  she 
gratefully  entreated  me  to  tell  her  wliat  she  could  do  for  me  in 
return,  I  asked  her  for  a  copy  of  her  diary  to  keep  among  the 
papers  that  I  treasured  most.  '  The  reading  of  it  now  and  then,' 
I  said,  '  will  encourage  that  faith  in  the  brighter  and  better  part 
of  human  nature  which  I  hope,  by  God's  help,  to  preserve  pure 
to  my  dying  day.'  In  that  way  I  became  possessed  of  the  manu- 
script; it  was  Anne's  husband  who  made  the  copy  for  me.  You 
have  noticed  a  few  withered  leaves  scattered  here  and  there  be- 
tween the  pages.  They  were  put  there  years  since,  by  the 
bride's  own  hand:  they  are  all  that  now  remain  of  the  flowers 
that  Anne  Rodway  gathered  on  her  marriage  morning  from 
Mary  Mallinson's  grave." 

Jessie  tried  to  answer,  but  the  words  failed  on  her  lips.  Be- 
tween the  effect  of  the  story,  and  the  anticipation  of  the  parting 
now  so  near  at  hand,  the  good,  impulsive,  affectionate  creature 
was  fairly  overcome.  She  laid  her  head  on  Owen's  shoulder, 
and  kept  tight  hold  of  his  hand,  and  let  her  heart  speak  simply 
for  itself,  without  attempting  to  help  it  by  a  single  word. 

The  silence  that  followed  was  broken  harshly  by  the  tower 
clock.  The  heavy  hammer  slowly  rang  out  ten  strokes  through 
the  gloomy  night-time  and  the  dying  storm. 

I  waited  till  the  last  humming  echo  of  the  clock  fainted  into 
dead  stillness.  I  listened  once  more  attentively,  and  again 
listened  in  vain.  Then  I  rose,  and  proposed  to  my  brothers  that 
we  should  leave  our  guest  to  compose  herself  for  the  night. 

When  Owen  and  Morgan  were  ready  to  quit  the  room,  I  took 
her  by  the  hand,  and  drew  her  a  little  aside. 


• 

>u  in  private.     We  shall  b. 

too  much  to  beg  you  to  corae  and  se« 
>e,  in  my  study  at  half-past  seve 

i  as  her  lips  opened  to  answer  rne,  I  hangej 

her  face.     I  had   kept  her  hand  in  mine  while  I  was  spea 
and  I  must  have  pressed  it  unc<  >  hard 

her.     She  may  even    have  uttered   a  few  words  of  re: 
strance;  but  they  ne\  me;  my  whole  hearing  sense  was 

',  absorbed,    petrified.     At  the   very    instant   when   I    had 
ceased  speaking,  I,  and  I  alone,  heard   a  faint  sound — a  s« 

new  to  me — fly  past  the  Glen  Tower  on  the  wings  of 
wind. 
"  Open  the  window,  for  God's  sake!''  I  cried. 

hand   mechanically  held   hers   tighter  and  tight' 

!  to  free  it,  looking  hard  at  me  with  pale  cheeks  and 
d  eyes.  Owen  hastened  up  and  released  her,  and  put 
round  me. 

ninth.   Griffith!''  he    whispered,    "control    yourself,   for 
George's  sake." 

Morgan  hurried  to  the  window,  and  threw  it  wide  open. 
The  wind  and  rain  rushed  in  fiercely.     Weleon 

!     They  all  heard  it  now.     "  Oh,  Father  in  heaver, 
ciful  to  fathers  on  earth — my  son,  my  son!" 

It  came  in,  louder  and  louder   with  every  gust  of  wind — the 
is,  rapid  gathering  roll  of  wheels.     MN  n  her 

as  if  i  to  her  heart,  wh 

;rned  on  me  all  pa'.  rlded.     1  ti 

r;  1  tried  to  break    away  from  Owen's  arms,  to  throw    m\ 
own  arms  round  her.  to  keep  heron   m  ie  to 

:i  me.     But  all  my  strength   h:  in   the 

nid  the  long  suspense.      My  head  sank  on  Owei 

1  the  wheels.     Morgan  i' 

sprinkled    water  over  my  face— I  still   heard    l  The 

i  ran   into   her   room,  and    i  ftch    wit! 

rd  the  carr; 

round  and  round  with  me;  but  I  h< 
m  the  hall,  and  the  opening  of  ; 
«»  rose  c 

d   him.     Ti 

tone;-  aired  into  my  ear,  and   then,  tli 

it.  hushed  me  suddenly  to  i 

When  1  came  to  m  lin    my  eyes   opened    u; 

s  lying  on  the  sofa,  still  in  t 

ling  at  my  pillow,  and  we 


264  THE    QUEEN    OF   HEARTS. 


THE  MORNING. 

THE  wind  is  fainter,  but  there  is  still  no  calm.  The  rain  is 
ceasing,  but  there  is  still  no  sunshine.  The  view  from  my  win- 
dow shows  me  the  mist  heavy  on  the  earth,  and  a  dim  gray  veil 
drawn  darkly  over  the  sky.  Less  than  twelve  hours  since,  such 
a  prospect  would  have  saddened  me  for  the  day.  I  look  out  at 
it  this  morning,  through  the  bright  medium  of  my  own  happi- 
ness, and  not  the  shadow  of  a  shade  falls  across  the  steady 
inner  sunshine  that  is  pouring  over  my  heart. 

The  pen  lingers  fondly  in  my  hand,  and  yet  it  is  little,  very 
little,  that  I  have  left  to  say.  The  purple  Volume  lies  open  by 
my  side  with  the  stories  ranged  together  in  it  in  the  order  in 
which  they  were  read.  My  son  has  learned  to  prize  them  already 
as  the  faithful  friends  who  served  him  at  his  utmost  need.  I 
have  only  to  wind  off  the  little  thread  of  narrative  on  which 
they  are  all  strung  together  before  the  volume  is  closed  and  our 
anxious  literary  experiment  fairly  ended. 

My  son  and  I  had  a  quiet  hour  together  on  that  happy  night 
before  we  retired  to  rest.  The  little  love-plot  invented  into 
George's  interest  now  required  one  last  stroke  of  diplomacy  to 
complete  it  before  we  all  threw  off  our  masks  and  assumed  our 
true  characters  for  the  future.  When  my  son  and  I  parted  for 
the  night,  we  had  planned  the  necessary  stratagem  for  taking 
pur  lovely  guests  by  surprise  as  soon  as  she  was  out  of  her  bed 
in  the  morning. 

Shortly  after  seven  o'clock  I  sent  a  message  to  Jessie  by  her 
maid,  informing  her  that  a  good  night's  rest  had  done  wonders 
for  me,  and  that  I  expected  to  see  her  in  my  study  at  half  past 
seven,  as  we  had  arranged  the  evening  before.  As  soon  as  her 
answer,  promising  to  be  punctual  to  the  appointment,  had 
reached  me,  I  took  George  into  my  study — left  him  in  my  place 
to  plead  his  own  cause — and  stole  away,  five  minutes  before  the 
half  hour,  to  join  my  brothers  in  the  breakfast-room. 

Although  the  sense  of  my  own  happiness  disposed  me  to  take 
the  brightest  view  of  my  son's  chances,  I  must  nevertheless  ac- 
knowledge that  some  nervous  anxieties  still  fluttered  about  my 
heart  while  the  slow  minutes  of  suspense  were,  counting  them- 
selves out  in  the  breakfast-room.  I  had  as  little  attention  to 
spare  for  Owen's  quiet  prognostications  of  success  as  for  Mor- 
gan's pitiless  sarcasms  on  love,  courtship,  and  matrimony.  A 
quarter  of  an  hour  elapsed — then  twenty  minutes.  The  hand 
moved  on,  and  the  clock  pointed  to  five  minutes  to  eight,  before 
I  heard  the  study  door  open,  and  before  the  sound  of  rapidly 
advancing  footsteps  warned  me  that  George  was  corning  into 
the  room. 

His  beaming  face  told  the  good  news  before  a  word  could  be 
spoken  on  either  side.  The  excess  of  his  happiness  literally  and 
truly  deprived  him  of  speech.  He  stood  eagerly  looking  at  us 
all  three,  with  outstretched  bands  and  glistening  eyes. 

"  Have  I  folded  up  my  surplice  forever,"  asked  Owen,  "  or  am 
I  to  wear  it  once  again,  George,  in  your  service  ?" 


TB 

don.    George's  feelings 
had  ;  to  allow  him  to  return  jest  for 

I  thank  you!"  ho  said.     "  And  you. 
led,  looking  at  Owen  and  Morgan  grateful 
must    thank   Chance  as   well  as  than! 

ightly  as  my  heart  would  let  nic,  to  encourage  him. 
"The  advantage  of  numbers  in  our  little  love-plot  was  all  01 

mlHT,  (Joorge,  wo  wore  three  to  01 

AVhile  I  .-aking  the  breakfast-room  door  opened  n< 

.  and  showed  us  Jessie  standing  on  the  threshold,  uncertain 

io  join  us  or  run  back  to  her  own  room.     II 
complexion  heightened  to  a  deep  glow;  the  tears  just  rising  in 

t  yet  falling  from  them;  her  delicate  h 
little,  as  if  they  were  still  shjly  conscious  of  other  lips 
1    them    but  a  few  minute-  li»-r  attitude 

••lutely  graceful;  her  hair  just  disturbed  enough  ovei 

cheeks  to  add  to  the  charm  of  thet 

before  us,  the  loveliest    living  picture  of  youth,  and  tender 
and  virgin  love  that  eyes  ever  looked  on.     C  had- 

ogether  to  meet  her  at  the  door.     Hut  the 
irl  had  heard  from  my  son  the  true  story  of  all  tl 
.  and  hoped,  and  suffered  for  the  last  ten  days,  and  sh 
i  mingly  how  she  felt  it  by  turning  at  once  to  ?/ 

I  stop  at  the  Glen  Tower  a  little  longer  ?"  she  as 

think  you  can  get  through  your  evenings,  my  \<r 
>>d.     "But  surely  you  forget  that  the  Purple  Volume  is 
and  that  the  stories  have  all  conic  to  an  er 

d    her  arms   round    my  neck,  and    laid   h> 
fond  I  -t  mine. 

"  !  I  have    suffered    y«->ten! 

l.v. 

.d  how  hapny  I  am  to-day!" 

Tin  ithered  in  1,  and  dropped  over  1 

d    lu-r    head    to   look   at    m<  match 

<  ntly  unclasped  her  arms  and  ltd  h 
"ii   really  did    U>\c    liim    then,  after    all."  I   w: 
"  tl  '  sly  to  let  me  <!; 

•  ut  among  the  ; 

11  with 
ion   of   this  kind  was  all    that 

ireu    round    tl  • 

n   of    1 1  the   head    o!   ii .  in  I 

6  ahca-l 

[THE   KM>.  | 


Baarks  the  women  of  our  households  when  they  undertake  tc  make  their 

and  cheery.     Nothing  deters  them.     Their  weary  v 
be  as  long  as  the  word  which  begins  this  paragraph,  but  they  prove  i 
regard  for  decent  homes  by  their  indefati^  What  a  pity  that 

of  them  should  add  to  their  toil  by  ne{i  »  use  Sapolio.    It  redooe* 

ihc  labor  of  cleaning  and  scouring  at  least  one-hall     lOc.  a  uike.    Sold  by 
ftttjroeers. 

SOCIAL  SOLUTIONS 

By      M.     aODIM, 

ly. 


THAN-  U  BY 


I  vol.,  I2mo,  illustrated,   cloth   gilt,  SI.5O. 

An  ndmirnh'' 

i  him  tc 

1 1  that  . 

;ent 
chattrl  .slavery. 


JOHN  W.  LOVELL  CO.,  Publishers, 

It  and   Ki    I  '<  .-<•?/  tUrcct,  .\  /  II      YORK. 


THE    BEST 

WASHING  GOMPUliD 

EVER   INVENTED, 
No  Lady,  Married  ov 
Single*  Rich    or    Poor0 
Housekeeping  or  Board* 
ing.  will   be  without  it 
after  testing  its  utility. 
Sold  by  all  first-cUo* 
Grocers,  but  beware  of 
worthless  imttatioa* 


LOWELL'S    LIBRARY. 


•tJiO  Shane  Fadfc'sWeddfcig.by  Carleton.20 
631  Larry  McFarland's  Wake,  by  Wil- 
liam  Carleton 10 

833  The  Party  Fight  and  Funeral,  by 

William  Carleton 10 

893  The  Midnight  Mass,  by  Carleton... 10 

824  Phil  Parcel,  by  William  Carleton.  10 

825  An  Irish  Oath,  by  Carleton 10 

826  Going  to  Maynooth,  by  Carleton.  ..10 
82T  Phelim    O'Toole's     Courtship,    by 

William  Carleton 10 

d38  Dominick    the    Poor    Scholar,    by 
William  Carleton.. . 10 

829  Neal  Malone,  by  William  Carleton.. 10 

830  Twilight  Club  Tracts,  by  Wingate.20 

831  The  Son  of  His  Father,by  Oliphant.20 

832  SirPercival,  by  J.  H.  Shorthouse..lO 

833  A  Voyage  to  the  Cape,  by  Ruseell.  .20 

834  Jack's  Courtship,  by  Russell 20 

835  A  Sailor's  Sweetheart,  by  Russell.  .20 

836  On  the  Fo'k'sle  Head,  by  Russell. .  .20 

837  Marked  "In  Haste,"  by  Roosevelt. . 20 

838  The  George-Hewitt  Campaign 20 

839  The  Guilty  River,  by  Collins 10 

840  By  Woman's  Wit,  by  Alexander. .. .20 

841  Dr.  Cupid,  by  Rhoda  Broughton.  ..20 

842  The  World  Went  Very  Well  Then, 

by  Walter  Besant 20 

£43  My   Lord    and   My  Lady,   by  Mrs. 
Forrester 20 

844  Dolores,  by  Mrs.  Forrester 20 

845  I  Have  Lived  and  Loved,  by  Mrs. 

Forrester 20 

846  An  Algonquin  Maiden,  by  Adams.  .'20 

847  Tiie  Ho'y  Rose,    by  Walter  Besant.  10 

848  Sh«%  by  H.  Rider  Haggard 20 

849  Handy  Andy,  by  Samuel  Lover  —  x'O 

850  My  Hero,  by  Mrs.  Forrester  20 

"  851  Lortia  Doone,  by  Blackmore.P't  I. .  .20 

851  Lorna  Doone,  by  Blackmore,  P't  11.20 

852  Friendship,  by  Ouida .' 20 

854  Signa,  by  Ouida 20 

855  Pascarei,  by  Ouida 20 

856  Golden  Bolls,  by  B.  L.  Farjeon...  .10 
S57  A  Willful  Young  Woman 20 

858  A  Modern   Telemachus,  by  Yonge.20 

859  Viva,  by  Mrs.  Forrester 20 

860  Omnia  Valutas,  by  Mrs.  Forrester.10 

861  Diana  Carew,   by  Mrs.  Forr-^ter.  20 

862  From  Olympus  to  Hades,  by  Mrs. 

Forrester 20 

\S63  Rhona.  by  Mrs.   Forrester 20 

864  Roy  and  Viola,  by  Mrs.  Forrester ..  20 

865  June,  by  Mrs.  Forrester 20 

866  Mlgnon,  Mrs.  Forrester 20 

867  A   Young   Man's    Fancy,    by  Mrs. 

Forrester 20 

868  One  Thing  Needful,  by  Braddon .. 20 

869  Barbara,  by  M  13.  TJraddon 20 

870  John   ManUmi"  ,,  by    M. 

K.  I'.raM.' 


ISSUES. 

73  Asphodel,  by  M.  E.  Braddon ft 

74  Nine  of  Hearts,  by  B.  L.  Farjeon.. 80 

75  Little  Tu'penny,  by  Baring-Gould.10 

76  The  Witch's  Head,   by  H.   Rider 

Haggard , .  20 

77  The  Doctor's  Wife,  by  Braddon.... 20 

78  Only  a  Clod,  by  M.  E.  Braddon. . .  .20 
i79  Sir  Jasper's  Tenant,  by  Braddon.  .20 

80  Lady's  Mile,  by  M.  E.  Braddon ....  20 

81  Birds  of  Prey,  by  M.  E.  Braddon.. 20 

82  Charlotte's  Inheritance,  by  M.  E. 

Braddon.  20 

83  Rupert  Godwin,  by  M.  E.  Braddon.20 

84  The  Son  of  Monte  Cristo,  Part  I. .  .20 
84  The  Son  of  Monte  Cristo,  Part  II... 20 

:85  Monte  Cristo  and  his  Wife 20 

86  Strangers  and  Pilgrims,  by  M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

A  Strange  World, by  M.  E.  Braddon.20 
Mount  Royal,  by  M.  E.  Braddon... 20 
Just  as  I  am,  by  M.  E.  Braddon — 20 
Dead  Men's  Shoes,  by  Braddon... 20 
The  Countess  of  Monte  Cristo,  Ft.  1.20 
The  Countess  of  Monte  Cristc, 

Ft.  II 20 

892  Hostages    to    Fortune,  by   M.  E. 

Braddon 20 

893  Fenton's  Quest,  by  M.  E.  Braddon.20 

894  The  Cloven  Foot,  by  M.  E.  Braddon.20 
SW  Moonshine,     by    Frederic    Allison 

Tapper 20 

896  Marjorie,  by  B.  M.  Clay 20 

897  Shirley,  by  Charlotte  Bronte,   . .   .20 

898  Joan   Wentworth   by  Katherino  S.20 

Macquoid 

899  Love  and  Life,  by  Yonge 20 

900  Jess,  by  H.  Rider  Haggard 20 

901  Charles  Auchester,  by  E.  Berper. . .  20 

902  The  Mystery,  by  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 20 

903  The  Master  Passion,  by  Marryat.  .20 

904  A  Lucky  Disappointment,  by  Flor- 

ence Marryat 1(1 

905  Her  Lord  and  Master,  by  Marry  at.  20 

906  My  Own  Child,  by  Marryat 

907  No  Intentions, by  Florence  Mnrr 

908  Written  in  Fire,  by  Marryat MO 

909  A  Little   Stepson,    by    Marry  at. ..  10 

910  With   Cupid's  Eyes,  by  Marryat. .  .20 

911  Not   Like    Other    Girls,    by    ROFB 

Nonchette  Carey 

912  Robert  Ord's  Atonement,  by  R 

Nonchette  Carey 

913  Griffith  Gaunt,  by  Charles  Read 

914  A  Terrible  Temptation,  by  Rea. 

915  Very  Hard  Cash,  by  Charles  Rratk-.'JO 

916  It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend,  by 

Charles  Reade 20 

917  The    Knightsbridge     Mystery,   by 

Charles  Reade 

!M8  A  Woman  Hater,  by  Cl.nr],- 

'.!'!>  H.'udhnia,  by  Charles  Reade 10 

9','0  John:   A  Love.  Story,  by  Mn-.  OJi- 

...90 
..20 


Am  r  N> obtained  from  n-  --rs  and  newsdealers,  or  will  toft 

urice,  by  the  publishers, 

JOHN  W.  LOYELL  COMPANY. 

NOB.  14  AND   16   YESEY   STREET^  NEW  YORK* 


RETURN        CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 

198  Main  Stacks 


LOAN  PERIOD  1 
HOME  USE 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS. 

Renewls  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due  date. 

Books  may  be  Renewed  by  calling  642-3405. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


JUN  0  9  2003 


FORM  NO.  DD6 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
BERKELEY,  CA94720-600C 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


